


Icebound

by FadedSepia



Series: WinterHawk Bingo [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Blood in the Snow, Childhood Friends, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Death By Freezing, Fairy Tale Style, Fairytale ending, Found Family, Graphic Description of Corpses, History of Physical Abuse, Longer Than My Dissertation, M/M, Magic, Manic Pixie Dream Boy, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Old World Fae Shit, Pining, Romantic Horror, Sorry Not Sorry, Unhealthy Relationships, chosen family, circus AU, death by car crash, modern fairytale, on the road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22012729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Clint has never been alone, not really. He’s always had his friends – his family – at least for a time, but never a particularly long one. He keeps wishing somebody –anybody!–would stay, just once.Just once.Bucky might not be able to stay – not always – but at least he seems willing to come back.A modern winter fairytale, written for Dr. Girlfriend for WinterHawk Wonderland 2019.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Kate Bishop, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: WinterHawk Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584478
Comments: 67
Kudos: 97
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo, Winterhawk Wonderland





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dr_girlfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/gifts).



> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**
> 
> **For Dr_Girlfriend:** I did my best to stick to your prompts, though I got a _little bit_ carried away. Just a touch. Not sure how _that_ happened.
> 
>  **Thanks To:** Rosie, Luna, & Tubes for their feedback, encouragement, and emotional endurance in letting my stomp on all the softest pieces of their hearts; Sev and CB for prodding me along and not laughing too much when I took a simple task and made it disgustingly complicated.
> 
>  **Extra-special, Bourbon-flavoured Thanks To:** WeepingNaiad for beta-reading this monster _thrice_ , for letting me pick her brain at random hours of the day and night, and for her amazing patience in the face of my idiotic typos. (Because fo course she underatsnda that I think faster than O tpye.) I literally _**could not**_ have done this without you, Nai.
> 
> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint’s nose is pressed to the window pane. He’s giggling – watching as his friend scoops up little snow devils outside – when Harold Barton drunkenly floors the gas, hitting a patch of ice and wrapping the family car around a tree only a few miles from Clint’s preschool. A tall man in a police hat comes to get him, to take him to the doctor’s, even though Clint’s not sick. Dad says he’s not supposed to go to the doctor’s, and he’s not supposed to talk to any police about his booboos.

The man gives Clint his hat, and says that they’re going to see his brother, and Ms. Teacher says it’s okay, so Clint goes. Mr. Officer lets Clint flash the lights all the way to the hospital, and lets Clint’s friend play, too, even if he is imaginary.

 _Imaginary_ – Clint knows – is the grown-up word for invisible, and those are the best kinds of friends. They don’t hit you, or yell; they are always very quiet, and never poke fun. Much better than his family – Clint thinks – because they don’t hurt you on the outside, or hurt you on the inside, either. Not like his parents at all, who are dead and gone away forever and still making him stay in a big empty hallway that smells like bathroom spray.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint watches lots of very grown-up people in very grown-up clothes; people in suits and coats and green pyjamas with funny matching shoe hats. He eats itty-bitty sandwiches from the counter in the big white kitchen – as many as he wants – and gets to pick a cookie after. Clint sleeps on a wheely bed in the room with Barney while his brother sleeps and beeps and wooshes on the machines. He is very happy when Barney wakes up. It’s been a whole day. Clint isn’t lonely, but he is bored; even though he has somebody to talk to, nobody ever talks back.

There are lots of doctors, and then a lady with a very worried face comes in, saying that he and his brother are going to stay somewhere else, now.

Clint asks if they’re going home, but she doesn’t answer him.

Barney reaches for him with a frown, squeezing too tight, hurting his fingers. Clint doesn’t let go, looking to the seat beside him before turning to grab his brother with both hands. Real people are the only ones that ever go away; he doesn’t need to hold on to anyone else.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Not for the first time, Clint kind of regrets planning for their escape.

This latest place isn’t so bad. There’s plenty of food, and he only has to share a room with his brother, and there are pets, too! Ms. Terry even helped him make a friend; a snowman with pine branch arms and glass marble eyes, dressed with an old ballcap and a blue peacoat with silver buttons as he sits in the yard. Clint tries to thank her for her help, to tell the older woman his frozen friend’s name, but he still can’t say _K_ quite right; he gives up when she tells him they have to say goodbye to _Buddy_ until morning. Ms. Terry bustles him out of the cold – fussing to keep the cats inside as she calls for his brother – because it’s time for dinner and a bath and bed.

Clint really wishes they could stay, but Barney says they’ve got to stick together, and Clint always listens to his big brother. Well, as much as he can, and only when Barn is standing on his right, since Clint can’t even pretend to hear anything on the left side, anymore. So when Barney peers down from the top bunk, telling Clint to grab his shoes and his coat, Clint does as he’s told.

He pulls on his new coat, grabs his backpack full of snacks saved over from their packed lunches, and tiptoes down the stairs, only putting on his boots once they’re standing in front of the door. Part of him really wishes he could stay, or that they could at least take one of the cats with them. Appalachian and Alpine are soft and fluffy in their sparkly striped collars, one pink and one blue. Clint always wanted a kitty, but neither likes the snow, and Barney says he has to leave them behind. He takes one last look back at the house – waves to the snowman drooping in the yard, already missing one bent stick arm – and hurries to catch up with Barn.

It’s snowing the night he runs away with Barney; trudging more than running by the time they reach the highway, Clint’s legs already starting to go numb below his knees.

Maybe this road will take them somewhere even better; somewhere warmer than Des Moines or Minot or Billings, where they can make their own family, and not just stay with somebody else’s. Maybe they’ll find somebody that can help him talk right, so his words don’t come out in a garbled not-quite-monotone that makes people think he’s stupid.

Or maybe they’ll die by the side of the road, like the boy on the news who fell over in a ditch on his paper route and stayed there for three days. Maybe they’ll be ice mummies – like that man with all the tattoos over in Germany – looking like terrifying people made of shoe leather, frozen jerky monsters forever. Clint’s pretty sure that’s going to happen, since he’s starting to stumble and can’t really feel Barney’s hand holding his, anymore. He’s going to look like an old shoe; that’s what Clint thinks, as the world gets very cold, and very quiet, and so still he doesn’t even realize when he stops being awake anymore.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint wakes up smothered under a mound of quilts and afghans, staring up at a ceiling covered in old scarves and fading circus posters. He’s stiff as he rolls over, looking around the small trailer. Like the ceiling, the rest of the mobile home is covered in things – hanging from hooks on tiny chains, mounted on the walls, perched on crowded shelves and stacked atop each other – all the colours feeling too bright for his snow-blinded eyes to handle. He pulls the blankets up over his face with a whimper.

The covers lift a moment later; Clint just can get his eyes to focus on a steaming mug and Barney’s face. “We made it, squirt.”

He’s not sure _what_ they’ve made it to, exactly, but Barney is smiling. His brother’s pushed a cup of hot cocoa into his hands, and Clint can feel every single one of his toes as he wiggles them under the blankets. There’s an older woman sitting at the end of the trailer; she has a little red-headed baby on her lap, and Clint can see another in a bouncer at her feet. That one burbles in his direction, and the one in her arms begins to cry.

Clint gulps another mouthful of the chocolate – it’s spicy and burns a little bit when he swallows – and turns to look back at his brother. “Where are we?”

“Carson’s.” Barney scoots up next to him on the bed, mussing Clint’s hair. “Home.”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Carson’s, Barney tells him, is a circus; a safe place, where they can make their own home. It means working hard, and not having a lot of money, but Clint’s used to that. They’ll have to share a bed, and sometimes clean up messes the attendees leave behind, but they can stay together here. Barney says they can be a family.

They don’t have to worry about being separated, and Clint thinks that sounds great; even though the trailer is draftier than their last cozy room. Even if he has to get up early and stay up late, and if the messes turn out to involve a lot of puke when the audience gets nauseated from the fake fog. Even when – a week into their stay – he finds a little frozen body in the snow as they’re shutting down for the night.

The cat’s fur is solid to the touch, eyes closed, tiny flakes of snow clinging to the blue collar – shimmering and striped – around its neck. It’s curled up, almost like it’s only sleeping on the frozen ground. Clint thinks the cat looks a little bit like Alpine, but they’re all the way in Spokane, now, so it can’t be. _It can’t._

Clint tucks the cat into a storm drain, then hurries back to his new home as the snowfall starts up again.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

The circus isn’t the home Clint had thought it would be when he and Barney arrived eight years ago, but it is a home of sorts. He doesn’t have parents, but he hadn’t had those before, not for such a long time that he hardly misses them, anyway. He’s still got Barney, though, along with a few other _siblings_ and _cousins_ – _aunties_ , _uncles_ , and even a _grandma_ in the form of Old Mrs. Maximoff – all people he’d never had until this place. The twins treat him better than his own brother, and Natasha is the best friend he’s ever had. Phil Coulson is that cool, young but old-fashioned uncle he never knew he needed. The Parkers want him to be the godfather to their coming baby. It’s terrifying some days – because Clint keeps waiting for something to go really, horribly wrong – but he loves it all the same.

Things might have been rough at the outset, but Clint’s stable now. He’s moved up to having an act of his own, not just cleaning the equipment and being Barney’s backup. He’s got billing on the poster – _The Amazing Hawkeye_ is printed in the corner, far overshadowed by _The Wolverine_ and _The Flexible Mr. Fantastic_ , but, still – that’s a pretty big deal.

He’s even managed to save enough money to spruce up the trailer over the past few months. The windows are re-caulked, the doors resealed, and he’s painted a bright purple target shot through with two arrows on the outside; one for Barn and one for himself. The wind hardly bites at all – even now that they’re in Erie – and the bright purple makes the white camper easy to single out in the regular fog and snow.

Clint might notlikethat they’re performing here in November, but at least now he can stand it; their trailer is still cramped, but now it’s cozy. It’s _their_ home, now, inside and out. When the clipper wind blusters through and coats half the campers in ice – blowing so thick with snow that he and Barn can’t even risk leaving the little trailer for fear of them getting lost on the way to the next one – at least Clint can make them coffee and cocoa, and know that they’re safe out of the cold.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

It’s snowing the morning after their last fight, and no one shakes him awake until the twins come banging through the trailer door. Clint blinks open his un-blackened eye to see that Barney isn’t there and all his savings have vanished, along with his one credit card. He grabs an aspirin and an ice-pack, then calls the bank to cancel the card. They tell him it was last used at a sandwich shop down in Pittsburgh. Clint is disappointed; he’s pissed and in pain, but not surprised. Barney will be back. He always comes back when he runs out of money. Just a matter of time.

Clint might have been able to choose the rest of his family, but he and Barn are stuck together. He tries to frame it like that, especially after nights that end like last night – he grumbles about the jackass to anyone that’ll listen – but he’s still worried when dusk falls and he hasn’t gotten a response from his brother. Clint blames it on the lake effect storm. Barney’s pager isn’t new, and the snow might be messing with the signals. It’s happened before; no cause for concern, that’s what he tells himself.

Still, he doesn’t turn down her offer when Natasha knocks on his door, brushing flecks of snow from her shoulders as she slips past him and curls up on his brother’s bed. She might not like Barn – and he can’t really blame her – but ‘Tasha’s here for Clint, and he appreciates the company. He falls asleep to Nat’s tuneless humming as the wind screams outside his door.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint is in his trailer three nights later – out of his spandex, washed and fed and exhausted – when the knock sounds on his bright purple door. Two Erie police officers stand on his stoop, little flutters of snow drifting straight onto their heads, hats in their hands.

Barney is dead, and they’d like him to sit down and answer some questions.

He waves them into his trailer, shutting the door behind them and reaching for his hearing aid. It will go faster with that, and they’ll leave sooner; leave him alone to mourn with his family.

They sit at Clint’s rickety dinette table and talk. Tell him that they found Barney, and that they need to show him a photo, just to finalize identification.

Clint doesn’t want to look, but he has to know. In the photograph the police show him, Barney doesn’t look like an ice mummy. He looks like he’s made of candle wax. Clint’s brother looks like he’s sleeping. He’s curled on his side, hands tucked in against his chest, face set in a grimace; Barn looks like he’s in the middle of a nightmare. The bruises on his knuckles have started to fade, just like the ones he left on Clint’s face.

They say Barney was found by a jogger at the edge of the parking lot just after dusk the day before, close enough that he should have easily been able to get back to their trailer, if he hadn’t already been frozen solid. The only other eye witnesses – an couple who live above their shop – said they thought someone in an old coat had dropped a bag of trash in the street; in the darkness, they didn’t realize it was a man at all. There are no wounds on Barney Barton’s body; no gashes or bullet holes, not even any bruising. He had been drinking, but not enough to kill him. From the outside, it looks as if his older brother simply curled up on the ground and died, but the police don’t think that’s what happened, and neither does Clint. His brother wouldn’t just lie down in the snow.

Yes, Barney’s always had problems – he has a record and a few habits that he mostly keeps in check; a pair of hands that he lets fly too easily and too often – but he isn’t suicidal. Clint didn’t report him as missing because Barn is twenty-one and this is hardly the first time his brother has gone AWOL after a scuffle. He vanished for a full week during the summer, and again for a few days back in the spring when Clint had to keep his wrist in a brace, but Barney came back. As far as Clint knew, he was alive and well a hundred miles away three days ago, healthy enough to eat a full meal and hang his little brother with the bill.

Clint isn’t a suspect, despite their history – the police tell him – but that’s only because the murder is impossible. His brother was a human block of ice when they found him; the kind of solid that should have taken three or four days, maybe longer since it is just below freezing outside. His brother was _alive_ four days ago, right here with him at this table, drinking his coffee and bitching about the tremor in his hand. A waitress in Pittsburgh says he was in her section – drunk and brash as ever – just a few short hours before his body was found. Dead men don’t just drive a hundred miles to another city to eat stacked sandwiches, and then drive themselves back. Clint isn’t sure what happened, but either the coroner is wrong or… There is no _or_. That must be it. _It must._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

It’s been almost a decade since Barney died, but Clint still has a bad feeling about Mary and Dick’s plan to drive out _tonight._ He tells the Parkers they shouldn’t leave in this weather – there’s a blizzard warning, and their little Golf has a shitty heater and a busted headlamp – but Mary insists they have to go because May was Dick’s only family and they can’t miss her funeral. Still, that doesn’t mean Clint has to _like_ it, even if he does put on a happy face when they drop off Peter after dinner. Dick thanks him soberly, apologizing for ruining Clint’s Valentine’s day, but insisting that they have to leave now, even if it’s going to be dark soon.

Peter is excited at least, clambering up onto Clint’s battered sofa, already in his footie pyjamas and prepared for their sleepover. He’s a good kid. He doesn’t complain about being home-schooled, or when Pietro teases him for being a baby, and Clint doesn’t mind the company. Especially not when the weather is bad, which it most definitely is in Chicago in February. Clint rarely sleeps well when it snows and he’s alone. It’s a little pathetic – feeling better that the _eight-year-old_ is hanging out with him, when he’s already well past old enough to _legally_ drink away his nerves – but Clint isn’t too proud to admit that he’s a little happy that Peter is here.

They stay up as the snow swirls beyond the windows, watching old kaiju movies and eating stovetop popcorn that Clint pops over his coffeemaker hotplate. Peter doesn’t even complain that it’s more than mildly burnt, just asks for extra butter that promptly gets wiped all across the front of his jammies. He nods off around one – swamped in an old sweatshirt since he ruined his own sleepwear – and Clint tucks him in on the bed before curling back up on the couch. Winters suck, and Chicago winters are some of the worst, but he can handle it for a few more hours. They’re heading to Indianapolis in the morning, then on to Cincinnati; it won’t be _warm_ exactly, but it’ll be clear, no icy wind in the forecast, and no more snow off the lake. Not the best, but better, right?

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Better is maybe not the right word. The shows are great; playing to a packed house just has such a different energy, and Clint loves that. It’s only…

The forecast was wrong. Very, _very_ , wrong.

The snow keeps falling around them – blowing into Gary before the winds abruptly shift southward – straight down I-65, trailing the caravan. Clint is honestly expecting it to stop when they all pull over for food. He can almost imagine that it slows down. Their easy trip is anything but, and – despite the amazing turnout they’ve had tonight – Clint is more than a little pissed.

Though, there is one silver lining; the snow is far enough east that he doesn’t have to worry about Pete’s folks driving through any of it tonight. The little boy is mostly asleep when he finally gets back to his trailer, curled up on the sofa. Pietro is doing a _great_ job babysitting. Clint tucks Peter in before rousing Maximoff and shooing him back to his own bed. The snow’s blown over by the time he’s in his own pyjamas, but Clint grabs a cola and settles onto the couch. Mary and Dick will be back soon; he might as well greet them when they come to grab Pete.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

He’s not even twenty-five yet, and there is no sane person on the planet that would say _he_ would be a good parent, but it’s been three days since the Parkers should have returned, and Peter isn’t willing to stay with anyone else. The kid is a wreck, and Clint has no idea what to do – no answers to his questions – because neither hide nor hair of Dick or Mary has been seen since May Parker’s funeral. Clint is Peter’s emergency guardian, and this sure as fuck seems like an emergency.

Phil drives out to Champaign himself, asks after them, files a missing persons report, but comes up empty. A truck driver calls in about seeing an older model red car on the side of the road that night, but no one’s been found, yet. There are only tyre tracks and a place where a car clearly _had been_ but isn’t anymore; a hollow point in the virgin snow just the size of the Parker’s tiny Volkswagen and – a few yards away – a very dead deer. No Dick, no Mary, and no Golf.

Peter wants to return to Chicago – unable to understand that his parents should be meeting them here – saying he’s going to run away by _himself_ if they don’t go back. Clint knows what that’s like for a little boy his age; he refuses to do his act because he can’t let the kid out of his sight. He doesn’t even have to ask for time off. Coulson pulls him from the rotation so he can stay with the Pete, putting the twins in with Stephen to make a longer act. _Dr. Strange and the Mysterious Maximoffs_ can carry the back end of the show.

Clint’s place is here right now. He needs to look after the littlest member of his family, even if – for the moment – that means just sitting next to the little boy sniffling on the sofa in footie pyjamas.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

It snows for an hour on their last night in Indiana. It’s a freak storm – completely unpredicted as it blows in from the west – coming straight up I-74 just as they’ve gotten everything locked down for the night.

Well, when the rest of the troupe has, at least; Clint hasn’t really left the camper longer than it’s taken to grab changes of clothes for Peter from the Parker’s trailer.

The kid doesn’t want to go back to it without his parents, and Clint doesn’t blame him. At least he is willing to let Pietro stay with him this afternoon, long enough for Clint to talk to Phil and Logan without the kid being around. There’s no news from Illinois, no update for Clint to take back to the anxious child waiting in his camper. Peter hasn’t been eating much, but Clint tempts him into putting away half a can of spaghettios before bed. He stays close after tucking him in, sitting on the edge of the mattress until the little boy falls asleep.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

The storm has blown over, but Clint remains awake, staring up at the old playbills still tacked to his ceiling after all these years, left over from the time before he and Barney traded trailers with the Maximoffs. Even with Granny Natalya long gone, he’s never had the heart to take them down. They’re like a little memorial – same as the pictures of his mom or Barney’s old _TrickShot_ costume that’s still hanging in Clint’s closet – each a little piece of people that aren’t here anymore.

He needs to think about something else; he’s not going to get all dour and morbid with Peter in here. Or with him in here _with_ Peter, since it seems to be happening, anyway. Clint pulls on his boots and another sweatshirt and slips out of the trailer. A quick walk around their little convoy – a quick survey of the motley collection of campers, trailers, and modified vans – will clear his head, he’s sure.

The wind is still blowing, but only lightly, lifting flurries to spin in little tornados just off the ground, dusting against his legs. It’s kind of pretty like this; enjoyable when the snow isn’t stinging his eyes, biting at his ears and nose. Clint kicks a little white mound as he walks and watches the fat flakes drift back down. It’s not bad tonight, reminds him of playing out in this sort of weather when he was little, back when he and Barn still did that type of thing. Maybe that might cheer Peter up. Clint may hate it, but most kids love the snow, right? Yeah, it would be a pain in his ass, but it would be worth it to see Pete smile again. At least, that’s what Clint muses to himself as he skirts the edge of the empty parking lot.

Almost empty; there is one car. Clint can see it easing slowly into the lot. If he strains, he can just barely hear a low, squealing grind as it rolls – hobbles, really – up the slight incline from the street. A lone man is pushing it, back against the rear window, booted feet pressing into the light powder blanketing the asphalt. Clint wonders if the guy needs help, or if he knows that the little red car is probably never going to roll again. He wonders how the man has even _managed_ to push the car at all, with the front bumper barely hanging on and one wheel just _missing._ Clint wonders if he hit a deer, and why the people in the front seat won’t get out to help him push the… _little red car…_

“Hey!” Clint is running, shouting without thinking as he sprints toward the man in the hat. It doesn’t matter if someone hears him; this is an emergency because he _knows_ that car. It’s been five days and two hundred miles, but Clint can recognize the Golf, even as mangled as it is. “Hey, stop! Fucking stop, damnit!”

The man is turning away, and Clint isn’t even halfway across the lot. His boots aren’t tied, and they’re slowing him down. The wind isn’t helping; a gust bowls into him, whipping the light powder up off the ground and into his face, and Clint trips. His palms leave bloody prints as he pushes back up, but it might be too late. He can’t see the guy anymore, and the stranger can’t be his first priority, not now. Clint is back on his feet and running, lungs burning in the cold even as he fumbles for his phone. He comes abreast of the car just as the dispatch operator picks up, but Clint doesn’t know what to say.

“ _Sir? Sir?!”_

“There’s been an accident.” A bad one. Bad enough to send Richard halfway over his seatbelt, for his skull to leave a web of cracks and a smear of red against the inside of the glass. There’s glass on his side, at least. Not on Mary’s, only…

Clint isn’t sure when he drops the phone, when he falls to his knees again. He only knows that he’s turned away, retching, watching a vague shape coalesce into Logan when the other man finally reaches him. It’s hard to see – he’s never been good about handling car accidents, not since he was little – and he’s so cold. _Frigid._ The smouldering end of Logan’s cigar is a bright point for Clint to focus on, bobbing jerkily at the edge of his mouth as he mumble shouts around it, asking for an explanation Clint can’t give voice to. This doesn’t make any fucking sense. It just _doesn’t_.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Even if the officers take his statement and draw up a sketch, he knows they don’t believe him. _Man in a coat_ is as generic as it gets, and it was snowing. Clint can’t even be sure of the colour. He has a feeling it was blue, and that he’s maybe seen the man before somewhere; that maybe he might recognize him if he saw him again. _Maybe._

Even if Clint could, though, there must be others that he just hadn’t seen. One man couldn’t have done this.

It takes a tow truck to get the Volkswagen out of the lot; the parking brake pulled and jammed into place on impact, the front axle broken. The car shouldn’t even roll, so there’s no way it _drove_ here, unless it hit a deer at the other end of the block. It _did_ hit a deer – the matted fur and flecks of blood tell that much – but that only adds to the confusion. There was a deer in Champaign, but there certainly isn’t one _here._

Mary and Richard Parker died on impact – killed in a car crash when they hit a deer – and their shattered bodies froze in place in their little red car. Those are the only facts everyone can agree on. The rest of it is like something out of a nightmare.

The Parkers have been missing for nearly a week. They’re hundreds of miles from the scene of the accident, yet still in their car all these days later. The only witness to their arrival saw someone pushing their car, a vehicle that doesn’t even have enough wheels to roll. And there’s a note, written in the frost of the back window, right where Clint could swear he saw the mystery man leaning.

The block letters are photographed before they can melt away in the early morning sun, unsettling message saved forever in police records and on Clint’s little flip phone.

_Family comes home._

Clint doesn’t know what it means; he wants to, but he also hopes he never does. He’s been up all night, and Pietro just sent him a text; Peter is getting worried now that Clint is gone, too. Logan and Phil can handle this better than he can right now. He has to figure out what to tell the kid who – undoubtedly – is only pretending to pick at the cereal Wanda and Pietro brought for him.

Peter clings to him when Clint steps back into the trailer, and he hugs the little boy just as tightly. Clint can’t bring himself to let go, walking Peter back to his breakfast and even letting the kid eat his puffed-wheat sitting in Clint’s lap. He asks the twins to stay – to call Natasha and Luke, and even Wade if he’s up – because Clint needs to be with his friends – his _family_ – at home right now. Needs it like he needs air to breathe.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**


	2. Icebound

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint wasn’t always superstitious, but it’s been a long while since he could trust the snow. Nothing good ever comes from it; not when the air goes sharp and empty, when the curtain of white rolls over the trailers and vans that house his ragged family. In the right place, a few flurries – a dusting or a light fall – don’t set the hairs on his arms on end, but this? This is Detroit, and this is January snow. No way in hell is this going to be anything close to _light._ Clint’s paranoia is better than it was – at least according to ‘Tasha – but he’ll still feel better once this run of winter bookings is over.

They always wind up going north for the winter because the venues are cheaper, but that doesn’t mean he hates it any less. It’s going to be especially _wretched_ this year – Chicago to Detroit to Akron, Johnstown up to Syracuse, then east to Schenectady before they hit Manchester – and Clint has tried to prepare himself for just how miserable all of the driving is going to continue to be. Their itinerary is a compilation of all the _worst_ places to be for a man who would be more than fine never seeing snow again, but Clint doesn’t make the schedule. Phil says they need to perform in places they can actually get an audience, and he’s right; these are cities that have always done well for them, so why break the pattern?

It’s not great, but it could be worse. After Chicago, Clint has no doubt that – for the moment, snow or no snow – things seem to be going fairly well. Peter got through their last stop without incident, going with one of his shorter routines for all of their five shows. That’s better than the last time they played Chicago, when the kid panicked on the wire at practice, forcing Nat to go out and get him.

Clint’s proud of him, mussing his hair as they sit in the wings and watch Wanda and Stephen bend mirrors and light the air on fire. He still has no idea how they do half of, but it sure as shit _seems_ like real magic, if there is such a thing. The crowd is lively, even if it’s a little thin.

Thursdays are hit or miss, but at least they come with a lot of _variety._ There’s the usual last minute date crowd – a lot of their Thursday folks seem to spend half the show thinking they can’t be seen once the lights go down – and the expected clusters of college kids too young or preppy to drink. A smattering of single folks, surrounded on one or both sides with a chair full of coat or purse or just hat; making little bulwarks between themselves and the other patrons. Clint can see a few families with small children clustered closer to the stage. Good luck getting _those_ brats to bed in time for school tomorrow. Peter laughs at that assertion; one less thing either of them had to deal with, growing up here. Overall, not the best of showings, but not the worst, either. No gaping holes of empty sections, no obnoxious drunks or asshats ruining anybody’s night. Nobody _weird._

 _Except that guy._ Clint’s eyes slide over him, sitting at the back of house on the left side, hunched down in his seat, the brim of his ballcap tipped down. He’s leaning into the wall abutting his chair and not really watching the act at all. That’s not unusual; lots of folks leave their hats on, and some people just don’t like magic acts. The guy is paying attention to _something_ though. Someone. _Him?_

Clint isn’t exactly hidden – he and Peter are in the wings, so anybody close enough could see them both at the right angle – but hat guy is in the literal back row, staring dead at him. Unless he’s staring at Pete, which would be all levels of gross, because he’s gotta be mid-thirties, and Spidey just has gotten his permanent license to drive. Clint stands, shifting to sit further away. Hat guy’s head moves, just barely. Him, then.

 _Huh._ Looks like this isn’t a weird-free night after all. Though, if he’s watching, anyway…

Clint lifts a hand, twiddling his fingers just slightly.

Hat guy shifts, and Clint catches what might be the beginning of a smile. He waves back.

_Huh…_

“Hawkeye? You’re closing, right?”

“Yeah.”

Peter nods his head toward the main stage area, where Phil is already talking him up.

 _Shit!_ Clint snatches up his bow, pulling the purple mask down from where it’s been perched atop his head, and runs.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Most nights, Clint would have glanced over the man slumped in the far corner of the stadium seats without a thought. Most nights, though, he wouldn’t have recognized anyone in the crowd, especially not as someone from an earlier show. That same man has been in that same seat – hunched down into himself and only furtively watching the performance – every night this week. Clint thought it was unusual on Thursday night. He’s been on the lookout for him since they opened on Saturday and wonders why he keeps coming. The guy’s been at every end of night show for four days; five, since he’s here now.

It’s rare that the same person comes to the show more than once – _maybe_ twice – in any city they’re playing. Carson’s has always been small; though the show lasts nearly two hours, concessions are bring your own, and the only animals these days are Shuri’s trained cats. They have good acts, but the _Amazing Human Spiders_ aren’t changing their routine on the regular; Widow might add a few things, but not too many if Spidey wants to keep his grades up. The _Scarlet Witch_ act tends to frighten the kiddies who might drag parents back for a second show. _Surviving the Deadpool_ is usually a crowd pleaser, but Wade keeps half killing himself getting out of the damn tank, and drowning tricks don’t _always_ play well… especially when Wilson literally _breaks_ his way out of the plexiglass water-trap.

 _The Amazing Hawkeye_ is the act most likely to change from night to night; Clint cycles through a few different routines. He’s been at it enough years to build a bit of a repertoire of tricks. Though, it’s hardly worth paying the price of admission _just_ to see his act. He’s a good showman, but Clint Barton is not exactly _famous_. Aside from Kate – who only watches Clint so closely because she’s his apprentice – he doesn’t really have _fans_. At least, that’s what he would have said before these past few shows, before the man in the hat and the peacoat.

Clint always looks out over the crowd from the sidelines when he’s not on, keeping an eye out for rowdy patrons, and just generally people watching. Watching this particular person, however, Clint has realized that first night wasn’t a one time thing. The man doesn’t really _watch_ the other acts. He’s focused on Clint, whether inside the ring or out. No matter where he is in the wings, Clint can always look back to catch the guy at least casually watching. When Hawkeye is in the ring, though, hat guy barely even twitches. He might as well be frozen in place as he stares.

It would be disruptive – beyond being just distracting– if Clint couldn’t do his act half asleep and sick. Which he can, and has. _The Amazing Hawkeye_ has pride of place on half their promotional posters now. So – come cold or sprain or back row creeper – Clint has to get out there. He has to close the show out with a flourish, in the hopes that the audience will leave wanting more. Peacoat guy might set him on edge, but maybe he’s only here because Clint is doing his job well.

Or maybe he’s a murdering psycho. Clint can’t say, and doesn’t want to hazard a guess either way as he prepares to step out. Both options are equally viable.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

That hat guy might be more stalker than fan doesn’t stop Clint from waiting at the exit after the show, anyway; waving the audience out, signing playbills where he’s wedged between Pietro in his silver spandex pants and Stephen in that ridiculously fluttering cape. Tonight it’s mostly parents and kids, but there are a few older couples, a gaggle of teenagers out past curfew who bought tickets online. Peacoat guy is near the end, head tipped down, face hidden by the brim of his cap.

It’s a whim – a hair-brained idea – but Clint sticks his hand out to the guy directly, bending to peer beneath the edge of the fraying ballcap. He almost stutters as the man looks up at him, but pushes out a relatively innocuous, “You’re quite the fan, aren’t you…?” and waits for a reply.

Clint’s more than a little distracted by the man’s eyes; barely blue, like thick ice over deep water. He almost misses the whispered answer. “You could say that. I’m Bucky.” The words are accented enough that Clint notices. It’s a blend of something east coast – Philly, maybe, or New York? – and a little of the sound he remembers Mrs. Maximoff having; the kind of clip that speaks of old mountains and cold nights, the sorts of places at the eastern edge of Europe, where old stories still sleep. It’s… _intriguing._

And his name? Well, that’s something, isn’t it? Not a common one – not a name Clint can say he’s heard too often – though not all that strange. The man slides his hand into Clint’s, shaking firmly, leaving a little tingle across his skin. It’s probably because his hand is cold. Has to be that, right? _Right._ Clint straightens, putting a bit of distance between them. “Will we see you tomorrow night?”

He realizes how stupid that sounds the moment he says it. They’ll be in Akron tomorrow night. Bucky might be a fan – really, Clint can feel himself grin at _that_ because there’s just something funny about meeting a _real_ _Bucky_ – but even this guy isn’t going to drive four hours just to watch Clint’s fifteen-minute routine. He’s about to walk it back, to apologize, when the other man speaks.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” _Maybe?!_ It’s not an entirely sane answer – never mind being a _normal_ answer – and Clint can’t help repeating it back like a trained bird.

“Maybe.” Bucky shrugs, barely smiling as he walks away, leaving Clint to be mobbed by another person, a tiny, giggling mass of black scarves and tattoos who thrusts a program straight up into his face.

Clint takes the little magazine and tugs the metallic purple permanent marker from behind his ear to sign it. He half listens to the chattering around him, nodding politely. Clint doesn’t stare after Bucky as the man walks out of the building. His eyes don’t follow the shorter man as he steps through the double doors and out into the delicate snowfall. He doesn’t. _Really._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint can’t recall a time when he’s seen the same person at their show in more than one city. Well – no – there were a few times, but those were special circumstances. Charles and Eric were Logan’s friends – which means they’re definitely crazy – and they were on a honeymoon road trip. The same sort of thing happened with Natasha’s former classmate, Darcy, who tagged along from Corpus Christie to Houston because she wanted a rager of a birthday. They _knew_ members of the troupe, already, so they didn’t really count.

By contrast, Bucky doesn’t know _anyone_.

Clint knows because he has _checked._ Because it was fucking freaky, peering out over the audience before the house lights dimmed and seeing him again. Bucky’s sitting up in the back,once more dressed in his blue coat and on the left, but with the hat off this time.

Maybe he should talk to somebody about this.

Phil agrees that it’s weird, and Luke offers to bounce him out. ‘Tasha, sneaking in from nowhere as has – _unnervingly_ – become her habit, suggests Clint not perform tonight. Wanda jokes that he has a groupie; her brother says he ought to take the chance and hit it. Kate volunteers to take his place and _miss_ in Bucky’s direction. Peter doesn’t say anything because Clint ends the conversation immediately once he catches sight of the first hint of red and blue spandex. It turns out to be Steve, which is just as well; Rogers is the type to just walk up and _talk_ to the guy right there in the stands, still in that stupid star-spangled singlet.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

He does go on, despite his reservations. Clint even ups the ante a little, pulling out a few more complicated tricks, since he knows that – even if it’s just one mysteriously odd guy – someone in the audience has probably come all this way to see their show. To see _him._

Clint queues up at the end of the night, too, though he positions himself right beside the door, hoping to be able to catch a private moment with his apparent _fan_ if he can. He thinks he has a chance, until Natasha pointedly stands right beside him, still wearing the knives from her solo act – which, despite what some in the audience might think, are both real and quite sharp – hands on hips in challenge as she follows his gaze up the corridor.

Bucky’s at the back of the crowd again, hat on and head down.

Like the idiot he is, Clint waves over his best friend’s head, opening him up to take her elbow straight to the kidney. Still, he’s caught Bucky’s eye, and the other man makes a beeline right for him. Natasha’s death glare doesn’t even faze him – Bucky offers her a quick smile – and Clint feels a little buzz in his chest as Bucky looks up at him. “Surprised you came.”

Bucky steps to the side – out of the way of the path of foot-traffic – standing next to Clint with his back to the door. “Didn’t want to miss you.”

It’s an _odd_ turn of phrase, but it seems harmless enough. Also like the twins might have been right; Bucky might really just be a hanger on. ‘Tasha jabs at his hip, but Clint ignores the little spike of pain. He might as well, right? They’re only going to be here for a few days, anyway, and – even if it probably isn’t the smartest idea – Clint’s willing to give it a shot. “Well, I’m not too hard to catch.”

Bucky tilts his head, sending his bangs whisking across his forehead and into his eyes before tucking the hair back behind his ear.

Clint chuckles nervously. “I mean… If you ever wanted to catch me outside of a show?”

That gets him another stilted smile like the one from the night before. Bucky nods slowly as he answers, “Might be nice. Been a while.”

“Yeah, for me, too, but…”Clint shrugs and lets that hang. Bucky seems like a nice guy; there’s no reason to bring up any of Clint’s relationship woes at this point.

So what if his fiancée ran out on him in Aspen? Yeah, Clint’s always thought it was weird that Bobbi never even came by for her stuff, but it’s been two years. It’s not like she just disappeared onto the slopes; the thaw in the spring would have turned something up, and Clint can guarantee she’s right back where she was when she got hired, working a less transitory gig and looking for her next easy hook-up.

He’s not bitter. Nope. Not at all. People leave; that’s just what happens. This, though, gives Clint the chance to be the one leaving if things don’t work out. Bucky isn’t part of the crew – part of the hodgepodge family of friends and co-workers – so there’s less risk.

Clint knows he’s thinking too much – probably frowning a little – so he forces a chuckle to break the chill settling between him and the other man in the hallway. “So… tomorrow morning?”

Morning means daylight and people; Clint wouldn’t head out on a night like this, anyway, not with snow in the forecast and already on the ground. ‘Tasha will – _maybe_ – shut down her over-protective attack mode if she knows he’ll be out when places will have a bit of a crowd.

“The Eye Opener? Eleven?”

Eleven sounds fine, and Clint has to assume that the other query is the name of the restaurant. “Sure, eleven.”

“See you then…?”

“Clint.” Because he really wants to spend the date – _It’s a date, right?_ – being called _Hawkeye._

“Right, Clint.” Bucky flashes another of his odd little lopsided smiles and tugs his cap back down.

Clint is definitely staring after him tonight, eyes on Bucky’s back – no lower, he can be a gentleman – as Bucky steps through the doors, loose hair lifting on the wind that’s swirling snow beyond the glass. He’ll admit to enjoying the view. He’ll do that much, at least, even if his cheeks start to burn when ‘Tasha mumbles out _‘Nice ass’_ behind him.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Bucky’s already waiting when he arrives. Clint’s late because he took the bus, not wanting to risk driving the truck he shares with Luke, Nat, and Logan for fear of someone following him. Luke and Logan are ignorance and apathy when it comes to his love life – _Don’t know_ and _Don’t care_ – but Clint can’t say the same for everyone.Nat’s over-protective, Wanda’s curious, Pete’s nosey, and Pietro is a god-damned menace with a fancy haircut. Phil is pure judgemental silence, and the worst of all of them. Clint can’t risk their… _assistance_ on this date.

He slides into the booth, mildly surprised to see Bucky out of his coat and with only one arm. One… _one arm?!_ Clint blinks, not quite sputtering as he stares. “Oh.”

“I… I lost that one in winter, years ago.”

“Sorry.” And now Clint feels like a complete jackass. He reaches across the table – grabbing the guy’s only hand because he really just has to be a shitshow today – and squeezes Bucky’s hand. “I mean… I’m sorry it happened… And that I didn’t notice it was missing earlier.”

“Sometimes…” Bucky’s eyes are on the table, but he gently returns Clint’s squeeze, cold fingers rubbing Clint’s own as he shrugs. “It’s not always missing…”

Prosthetic, then. Makes sense; why wear it if you don’t think you have to? That’s how Clint usually is with his aid, which he’s already slipping off, holding in his other hand for Bucky to see. “I get it. Sorry for being a jerk.”

“You’re not.” Bucky pulls his hand back and sets it in his lap. Clint is worried, genuinely, until the man lifts his head to look back at him across the table. “You’re a good person Clint.” Bucky says it like it’s The Truth with a capital _T;_ something unquestionable.

Clint shakes his head and reaches for a menu. “I, uh… I try?”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Their first date is unusual. Firstly, Bucky is very quiet, but he seems to be interested, at least. He’s a good listener and doesn’t seem to mind when Clint leaves his aid out, even if his voice goes a little monotonous. Secondly, it really is a _first_ date. Despite Clint putting both booted feet squarely into his mouth at the start – leaving him feeling like a clod for the next two hours that they’re together – Bucky responds with a nearly instant _‘Yes’_ when Clint asks to see him again. And, lastly, it’s unusual because Bucky has got to be the first person Clint has met in _years_ that doesn’t have a mobile.

It’s shocking – _everyone_ has a mobile phone, don’t they? – and Clint worries at first that Bucky is just dicking with him, planning to blow him off after today. But they plan their next date for a walking park north of the city right there at the table. And, despite fears that – this time, for sure – Bucky is going to stand him up, he’s waiting again when Clint arrives, back in his cap and blue coat, leaning against a fountain that’s been drained for the winter.

He has his prosthetic that day. Clint catches glimpses of silvery-white between the cuff of Bucky’s coat and the edge of the glove on his hand, but he sticks on the man’s right side, and that works out alright. Despite that being his bad ear, he doesn’t have any trouble hearing Bucky, even with the cold snaps of breeze that rattle the frozen leaves over their heads.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint sees Bucky every day he’s there, right up until the morning before their last show in Akron, when he meets Bucky at a place that serves rum and tacos, and seems to cater near exclusively to loud, thirty-something women on their lunch breaks. The small bar is crowded, and all of the tables are occupied. There’s one half booth available, but the chairs on the other side have been taken by the table behind them set on turning a four-top into a six-top.

Not that he minds all that much, scooting in close to Bucky like he has to. His date didn’t wear his left arm today, and he’s tucked tightly against Clint’s side on the narrow bench seat. They’ve eaten – tacos and a margarita for Clint, cold shrimp salad and vodka-tonic for Bucky – leaving them with a few minutes to just enjoy each other’s company. Clint has been working up the courage to put his arm around the other man through the whole meal, and decides that he ought to just go ahead and do it. Bucky seems to _always_ be a little bit cold; he might appreciate it. If he doesn’t, the date is basically over, anyway, and Clint can just blame it on needing to stretch in the tight little booth.

His fears are unfounded. Bucky wiggles a little bit closer, head tucking under his chin.

Clint takes a pause to enjoy the moment. Bucky feels so right pressing into him like this, even if his cheek is a little cool on Clint’s neck. He lets his chin rest on dark hair as he asks, “Look… I know it’s only been a couple days, but… Can I call you, or something? Have you got a land line?” It’s a long shot – in-house phones are a dying utility for people their age – but Clint’s hoping for some way to contact the man leaning into his shoulder once he has to get back on the road.

“Why would _I_ have a _phone_ , Clint?” Bucky laughs beside him, as if he’s just said something hilarious. “What would I even _do_ with it?”

 _Call me?_ echoes the tiny, desperate voice in the back of Clint’s mind, but he tries to laugh it off, too. Bucky is a little weird – eccentric, one might say – but Clint’s fallen hard for the guy, and it’s not like he isn’t the teensiest bit crazy, himself. “I guess I was just… I didn’t want to lose touch with you, that’s all.”

“I travel where I can.” Another cryptic answer, but it’s somehow comforting. “I’ll see you, again, Clint. I promise.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky pulls away, face tipping up before his lips brush against Clint’s own. “Yeah.”

There’s a loud whoop from the table beside them, two of the women – a redhead and a brunette – staring across the space between their tables. The redhead nods approvingly, lifting her drink in a mini salute to them both. The brunette takes a sip of her drink, offering a wink before her eyes crinkle in a smile. Bucky ducks back in against him, and Clint clears his throat before standing up.

They’ve already paid their bill, so leaving isn’t a problem.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Bucky reaches for his hand as they walk toward the bus stop. Clint is reticent to let go when his bus arrives. He waves as the bus pulls away, watching Bucky shove his hand into the pocket of his well-worn coat. He needs a new one; that one coat isn’t nearly warm enough for this sort of weather. Clint wishes Bucky would come back with him, but he has maintenance to finish before they leave. He would have liked to stay later, spend the afternoon with Bucky because he’s not performing tonight, but he still has more than enough work to keep him busy, and he’s got to drive in the morning.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Johnstown brings packed seats, clear skies, and anticipated disappointment. It still stings, even though Clint knew what to expect; knew that Bucky probably wouldn’t be here. But he contents himself with a good show and attendee number that leave them nightly turning people away at the door. He doesn’t miss the snow – though it might be nice if things looked a bit prettier, with it being so cold – and he’s glad for the moment to unclench while it lasts.

They’re sure to hit a storm either on the way to or in Syracuse; their stay is over-scheduled to make sure they don’t miss any potential shows, which means they’re going to be stuck in that great frozen hellscape for a full two weeks. Logan will be out, both he and Wade calling it beach weather as they try to drag Clint down to the lake; crazy Canadian bastards. It doesn’t matter that Clint grew up seeing blizzards on the regular. He hates it up there, and – mark his words – he’s going to be spending every minute he possibly can hunkered down in his trailer. That’s a fucking promise.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint makes and breaks his vow in the same week, walking back on it a few minutes after Wilson sidles up to him, shit eating grin splitting his face.

“Oh, Hawky-boo?” The sing-song tone and nickname are grating as always, but the words that follow catch his attention. “Your groupie’s back.”

“What?” Clint had been scared to look after their last stop; scared to give in to the little hope that he might see that sober, handsome face among the other patrons. Now he squints around the corner, eyes tracking along the back row, house left, and spotting a familiar navy coat.

A heavy hand settles on his shoulder, words wafting on the smell of old smoke reaching his good ear. “Try not to run this one into the mountains, bub.”

“Fuck you, Wolverine.” It’s a dumb thing to say – Logan is small, but short tempered, with enough muscle and spite to literally tear Clint a new one – but he’s up as soon as Coulson can talk through the act transition. For now, all Logan can do is pull down his mask and glare as Wilson bounces like a red and black bobble head beside him. He’ll probably forget about it by the end of the night. Or he’ll put hot sauce in Clint’s coffee, again. He might blame it on their co-performer, but Clint knows better.

He sneaks furtive looks out at the audience for the rest of the night. It’s the first time in more than a decade that Clint gets an attack of nerves before he goes on. Because Bucky is out there. To see him. Just like he said he would be. _Where he could travel._ The phrase pops up in Clint’s brain a few times over the night. It’s just the tiniest bit off, the implied meaning one degree away from expectation. Still, Bucky has that little bit of an accent. English probably isn’t his first language. Maybe that’s why he’s so quiet and shy. It would make sense; might explain why he was alright listening to Clint murder his own words on the regular.

“See something you like, little bird?” A manicured finger pokes into his cheek, and Clint slides his eyes down and to the right, soft grey meeting laughing green. Natasha’s in her black suit tonight, gold belt of scarves holding a few of the larger knives around her waist. Pietro stands awkwardly behind her, trying to flash his usual grin but looking a little nauseated; it’s only his third night as her target, now that Peter’s back on the wire full-time.

“Maybe.”

“Mr. Nice Ass, again?” She goes up on her toes even further than the heels already put her, scanning the crowd from their spot in the shadows. “What’s he up to?”

“He’s sitting on it.”

“Hmm…” ‘Tasha pats his cheek as she slides past him, stepping to the edge of the puddle of warm light that marks their stage, awaiting her cue.

Clint shoos Pietro behind her – poor guy – and goes back to what is swiftly becoming his new favourite hobby, eyes once more on the back row of bleacher seating.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint almost makes it off the stage before he sees Phil waving him back from the opposite wing, urging him to go out for an encore that lasts half again as long as his regular routine. Some of the audience trickles out – no doubt those with places to be – but he’s pleased to see so many people stay. Most everyone is out to sign autographs already when he gets down to the exit, leaving Clint to stand by the door again, which suits him just as well. The crowd flows out into the parking lot – gush tapering down to a trickle – but he doesn’t see Bucky. Even when the venue security comes through to lock up the front door, the man hasn’t made an appearance; the place is empty, and Bucky and his ice-blue eyes are no shows.

Maybe he had to leave during Clint’s encore? Maybe he’ll come back again tomorrow?

_Maybe._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint helps Peter do a final check of the lines and rigging, un-wedges one of Nat’s knives that went astray because someone didn’t understand they allow _NO Flash Photography_ , and – along with Claire – sets Wade’s shoulder for the third time this season. He’s the last one out the door, flipping off the last of the backstage lights and shrugging on his light purple parka. It’s not enough to be out in with him only in his spandex, but it’ll do to make it back to his trailer.

Clint checks the lock behind him and turns around, nearly tripping over a solid mass of dark wispy hair and blue wool. “Bucky?!”

“Hi…” Bucky takes a step back, slipping off his hat and tucking it into his pocket. He tucks his bangs back with a chuckle. “Sorry. I didn’t want to crowd your fans.”

“Pretty sure you’re my number one fan, at this point.” Clint grins into a wink to keep from smirking at his luck.

“Absolutely.”

“So…” There’s just the barest fall of snow right now, tiny icy flakes shimmering like glitter all around them. Clint shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly embarrassed in the familiar skin-tight pants and open vest, even with it beneath his coat. “Are you… How long will you be in town?”

“About as long as you’re here?” Bucky tips his head back, blinking up at the sky. He steps in to lean against Clint’s side. Bucky rests his head on Clint’s shoulder, voice low. “Depends.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhmm.” Bucky’s still looking up at him, pale, sharp cheeks cast rosier in the glow of the sodium light above them.

Clint can’t help himself; he bends down for a kiss. Bucky’s lips are chapped and chilled; who knows how long he’s been standing out here?

The other man pulls away first – shyly slipping his arm through Clint’s – and toes at the ground. “Do you…” He coughs. “Do you have time now?”

He wants to say yes – so, _so_ badly, though it hasn’t even been a full week since the last time he saw Bucky – but Clint feels just gross. He was sweating while he worked; he’s still sweating under his parka but has a chill in his legs from standing out here even this long. There’s got to be rosin powder on his face – it just _happens_ – and he _can’t_ smell very good. To top all that, Clint drove, set up, spent most of the night with the jitters, and _still_ went out for more than double his regular performance time. He’s tired all the way down. So, unless Bucky wants to watch him fight to stay awake in his trailer… “Will you be around-?”

“Tomorrow?”

Clint finds himself on the edge of saying yes, now, of course, even though he knows that the next few hours might be his only free time for the better part of the week. Their shows and some last minute maintenance work are going to keep him busy right up until the last matinee. Though the fair skies that preceded them do mean he'll have a week off, time he can spend a large amount of with Bucky. “Thursday? We can meet here, and I can drive?”

Clint squeaks out that last part. He gets _uncomfortable_ driving in the snow, and the weather might turn, but he’s even less at ease when someone else is behind the wheel. Plus, it’s courteous; he’s taking Bucky out for real, since he’s making the guy wait all week.

“Um…”

“Anywhere you like.” Fuck, he hopes that doesn’t come off too desperately, but Clint really wants Bucky to say yes. Unless he sounds pathetic. Unless desperate and pathetic works for Bucky? Clint’s already feeling like both.

“The lake?” Chilled fingers squeeze on his arm, hopeful blue eyes blinking up at him in the sparkling breeze.

 _Fuck…_ Having a date was supposed to help him avoid that frigid shoreline, along with Logan, Wade, and probably Pietro, who’s sure to be anywhere something ill-advised might occur. Although, if he lets the guys know it is a date, it will at least get Clint out of going to the lake with _them._ It will be cold, but it’ll leave Clint with a pretty view all to himself… and a view of the lake as a bonus. “Sure… yeah… the lake. What time?”

“Oh, I can be ready whenever you want.”

 _Oof._ That phrase is warming in all the worst ways when a guy’s wearing clinging, sequined tights, making Clint really wish he had on his longer winter coat.

“Nine-thirty?” That will give him time to look decent; for his hair to dry, instead of being frozen into place like it is right now.

“Nine-thirty.”

“I… I can walk you to your car?” That _is_ something Clint can do right now; not like feeling his toes or keeping himself from fixating on the glimmering snowflakes clinging to Bucky’s hair.

“No car.” The response is succinct without being curt. Bucky is still smiling pleasantly back at him. Maybe he caught a ride, or came with someone else, but they should have been waiting with him and – to be honest – Bucky doesn’t really strike Clint as the friendly carpooling type.

Still, he’s here, and he seems happy, and Clint’s not going to push his luck on a good – if _odd_ – thing. “You’re sure you’ll be okay? It’s supposed to get pretty bad tonight?”

“I know.” Something shifts in Bucky’s smile, pulling it just a little too far past giddy as he shrugs. It’s not _unpleasant_ , but there’s just something about it. His grin is sneaky– _mischievous_ – which makes sense a moment later as he leans in for another kiss against Clint’s just-numbing lips. Bucky’s laughing as he pulls away, waving and running off into the snow.

It would be easy to follow him. Clint’s fast; he could make up the distance, pull Bucky back into his arms, kiss him until he’s satisfied-! _No._ That would be dangerous, keeping Bucky later when the weather might turn. Also, that would seem so _clingy_. Which – yeah – maybe the other man is, following Clint from town to town like this. Maybe Bucky’s some sort of a new age hippie, going where the road takes him. Maybe he’s just really into purple tights and Palaeolithic weaponry.

 _Maybe_ Clint should get his chapped ass inside before his leggings freeze permanently to his thighs.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint stays in the shower until the diminutive water heater runs out. Not because he’s enjoying himself – the cold took care of most of _that_ on his walk back to his trailer – but because he was out in the chill night air just too damn long. Clint _cannot_ get warm right now, and it’s shitty. He curls up in his mound of bedding, garbed in socks and sweats and a second hoodie, and pulls the blankets up over his head. He’s still not warm, but he’s getting there. Might go faster if he had an electric blanket. _Or a cuddle buddy._

Clint hasn’t had anyone for _that_ sort of thing since Bobbi. He needs to let it go; along with the resentment and the guilt and the little black ring box that’s been in his bedside drawer since she left it with her ring inside and a note beneath on the nightstand. He ought to just throw it away. He will. _Soon._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Thursday morning hits him with a six a- _fucking_ -m wake up, shelling out for three cases of beer, and enduring half an hour of obnoxious smoochy noises each way to and from the store, but Clint gets the truck to himself, along with promises of non-interference from everyone that isn’t Wade. Although, Wilson’s not much of a threat with Logan, Luke, _and_ Steve sitting on him like that. Still, Clint hurries to the edge of the lot; best to get away before anyone _else_ thinks to hide in the truck bed.

Bucky’s waiting for him when Clint pulls the truck to the patron side of the parking lot. The shorter man slides onto the other end of the bench seat, and Clint heads for the lake.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Despite the day technically being _overcast_ , the light reflecting off the ice-rimmed lake and frosted trees prompts Clint to keep his sunglasses on. He offers them to Bucky, who demures shyly and tips down the bill of his hat before looping his arm through Clint’s. They walk along the edge of the shore, arm-in-arm, as Clint tries to keep talking and not just smile dopily at the man beside him. “So you’re a storm-chaser?”

“Something like that. Most of my travel is weather dependent. Seasonal.”

 _So are hurricanes._ Clint snorts, thinking of that poor bald guy that always seems to get sent to places where he’s stuck in floodwater up to his crotch, and the people that take their vans out like those folks in _Twister._ It’s an image that’s hard to square with the sedate man that’s just leaned his head against Clint’s shoulder.“Do you ever get to go anywhere _nice?”_

“Do you not think _this_ is nice, Clint?” Bucky stops abruptly. On anyone else, the face he flashes Clint might be called a _glare_ , but – for a brief moment – Bucky’s expression seems to toe the line between distraught and murderous.

 _Shit._ The guy just would have to _like_ this sort of weather, wouldn’t he? He’d be too damned perfect, otherwise, and now Clint’s rained on his parade. Sort of. With his obnoxious loves of _warmth_ and _sunshine._

Bucky is still pouting up at him.

He runs his free hand through his hair and looks away. “It’s… pretty? Just kind of lonely is all, everyone huddled up inside.”

“Not _everyone.”_ Mollified, Bucky plants a kiss on his cheek.

“No. I guess not everyone.” Clint drops his head to the side; cheek resting on Bucky’s hair, eyes half-closed. It’s not so bad out here, since he has good company. He nuzzles – just a bit – against the soft dark hair pressed to his face. He doesn’t mind the weather, not if he’s with Bucky. Clint doesn’t notice the cold as much when they’re together. He doesn’t realize how close they are to the edge of the lake until he loses his footing in the half-frozen muddy silt. He doesn’t react in time to stop his slide toward the water, or dragging Bucky with him.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

“The heater is a piece of garbage, and you shouldn’t stay in damp clothes.” Especially not jeans; they take fucking _forever_ to dry, and Bucky’s calves and backside are soaked in wet mud. Clint hurried him into the truck, set on getting them back to somewhere fucking _warm_. He’s driving, but there’s plenty of space in the cab, and it’d be a shittier date than it already is if Bucky froze to death“I… I won’t look.”

“It’s fine.”

“Bucky, I get that you’re all into this winter wonderland stuff, but you’ve got to be freezing, right?”

“I… guess?” Beside him, Bucky smiles and shakes his head as the caravan lot comes into view. “It really isn’t that bad. I can just go-”

“No way are you walking _anywhere_ in those except inside.” After all these years where his instructions might be the difference between a good show and a dead performer, Clint has a little bit of a _voice_ when he’s trying to be forceful. He’s relieved to see that it works on Bucky. Clint can see him nodding assent out of the corner of his eye, whispering _‘Inside?’_ just low enough that Clint almost misses hearing it as he parks the truck alongside his trailer.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint feels like he’s one giant shiver as he sneaks Bucky in through his purple front door. He’s not embarrassed, his family is just a bit… _much_ for most people. Even if his date seems to be pretty relaxed most of the time, that could change if someone decided to come _meet_ him. Kate is worse than any guard dog, and Rogers is a _hugger._

He shuts the door behind his guest, waving Bucky to the bathroom as he tries to root out a pair of pants that might fit the shorter man. That don’t have holes. Or too much glitter clinging to them. Or that aren’t – ya know – cut off to the point that they barely count as shorts. Purple sweats it is, then. Clint knocks on the tiny door, shoving the sweatpants through as soon as Bucky cracks it open, back turned. He’s already nearly drowned him in mud and let him get hypothermic; the least Clint can do is _not_ creep.

Clint takes the time to shuck his own ruined khakis – his only really _good_ pair, too, _damnit!_ – and tugs on his flannel pyjama pants. They’re warm, and worn, and he’s pretty sure they’re older than Peter. Clint thinks they used to belong to his brother; they’re frayed at the cuffs and one pocket is pretty much all hole at this point. Still, they are quite toasty.

By the time Bucky comes out, the coffee pot is starting to drip and Clint is curled up on his sofa, huddled under his favourite quilt. “Join me?”

Bucky’s head tips downward, leaving him hidden behind his hair as he shakes his head. “It’s alright.”

Clint pats the empty space on the sofa beside him. “Stay?”

“I… I shouldn’t.”

“Just for a little bit? So I don’t have to worry about you being out there on your own?” Clint is wheedling, and Bucky huffs, looking back up only to roll his eyes. He’s not going to give the shorter man a chance to argue. “You fell into the _lake_ , Bucky. Humour me?”

“Alright…” Bucky sits, and Clint throws the blanket over his lap. Despite his brave words, the other man feels cool, so Clint tucks the quilt up around both of them.

It might not be the date Bucky had hoped for, but Clint tries to make it enjoyable. The coffee winds up being just for him since Bucky doesn’t want any, but they split a bag of toffee-nuts and watch vintage movies while they snuggle. Vintage _movie,_ actually; one that Clint’s never seen before, but that Bucky seems to love. It’s got the world’s most convoluted plot – Clint’s pretty sure it’s about an affair and the communist revolution – and it’s three hours long _before_ adding in the commercial breaks. It’s mind-numbingly boring, but Bucky is into it, though he laughs at the actors’ attempts at Russian words.

Clint would be happy to stay curled up with him for the rest of the day, but the man in his arms starts to get up just as the film ends. Of course Bucky has to go – it’s nearly four in the afternoon – but Clint doesn’t want him to.

“I’ll be back.” Bucky bends back down and kisses him gently. “And I have your pants.”

“Just keep ‘em.” Clint likes the way Bucky looks in his sweats; likes the thought of Bucky in lots of things. Or out. “I’ll wash yours up for you.”

“You don’t have t-”

“ _You don’t have_ a mobile or a car, so I doubt you’ve got a laundry service.”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint sees him off with a kiss at the trailer door, still insisting he should at least give Bucky a lift.

Bucky’s as firm in his protestations as he is in kissing Clint to shut him up. Both work, but the latter delays his departure by a good half-minute.

‘Tasha and Kate are polite enough not to say anything until Bucky’s well out of ear shot. Then they’re pushing him back into his trailer, badgering him with questions, demanding _details_. Clint doesn’t mind all that much, even when Peter joins in on the interrogation. It’s nice to have something this good to talk about.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

The rest of their shared time in Syracuse isn’t nearly as _eventful_ as that first date by the lake. Clint and Bucky go on perfectly safe, pleasant outings together. They walk through the dog park, though Clint doesn’t actually have his own dog, and not very many dogs want attention from Bucky. They watch more movies; subtitled for Clint, with Bucky supplementing the translations, leaving Clint to wonder how he speaks so many languages. They go on dates like the one they’re on today; meeting at a cafe, even though Bucky really doesn’t drink coffee.

Clint wishes they’d opted to sit inside, hands clutching his paper cup, trying to draw as much warmth from it as he can.

Bucky sits across the table, sipping a toasted caramel iced latte – which isn’t _really_ coffee – and watches the sparse foot traffic on the side-walk.

Clint, meanwhile, watches Bucky.

“What?”

“Nothing… you’re just… funny.”

“Do you mean strange?”

Clint _does_ because Bucky _is_ strange. Endearing, yes, and easy to talk to, but still, “A little, but it’s not a bad thing.”

“No?”

“Nu-uh.” Clint knows he’s not the easiest person to date. It’s hard to keep relationships going when your home isn’t even in the same place from day to day. Travelling makes meeting _anyone_ an endeavour, and Clint has learned the hard way that seeing someone in the troupe doesn’t always work out for the best. So, while, Bucky isn’t exactly normal, Clint’s got to applaud his effort. Following the circus to a new city? Being willing to work around Clint’s erratic schedule? “I mean, it doesn’t bother me. It’s cute; I’m going to miss it.”

That last sentence is a bit too honest – _needy_ – and Clint looks down at the lid of his cup as Bucky snorts. _“Miss?”_

“Well, yeah. We’re, uh… The circus is heading out tomorrow morning, remember?” They have talked about this. Clint doesn’t want Bucky to think he’s stringing him along.

 _“And?”_ There’s a bemused smile on Bucky’s face.

“ _And_ that means I will be in Schenectady tomorrow night prepping for a show.”

Bucky’s smile widens, cheeks crinkling the corners of his pale blue eyes, and he nods. He takes another sip of his drink, then chuckles. “So I should ask to see you after you’ve had a few days to settle?”

 _What?_ “Bucky, are you crazy? That’s another hundred miles east!”

“So maybe I am.” The prosthetic rests limply in his lap, but Bucky reaches his good hand across to squeeze Clint’s. _Maybe he is._ Trucking all the way across I-90 in February when he doesn’t have to is a little crazy. Doing it to follow Clint seems even more so. Bucky tugs at Clint’s hand, leaning forward to press it to his cheek.

“I’m crazy, and you’re… you’re _special._ That’s all.” Bucky lets the conversation – along with Clint’s hand – drop, once more picking up his drink, eyes drifting to the pedestrians on the other side of the street.

Clint sits, staring at Bucky until his phone beeps in his pocket.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Phil might have been circumspect about asking, but Phil isn’t the one who’s cornered Clint in the doorway of his trailer. Natasha cuts right to the heart of it, her words as sharp as the knife she’s walking across her fingers. “So it’s serious, then?”

“Uh…?” It kind of has to be; cutting out the one city Bucky _didn’t_ visit, it adds up to almost seven-hundred miles the guy’s travelled to see him. To Clint, that seems like it has to mean this thing between them is pretty damn serious, though they’ve never really talked about it. Bucky might, _at best,_ be called a free spirit, and Clint has been reticent to label their relationship for fear of making it a _thing._ They meet at Carson’s current venue, go out, or retreat to Clint’s couch to cuddle, make out, and watch movies. That’s a little easier now that Clint knows to park his trailer at the outside edge when the convoy stops. It makes it harder for Steve or Wade to drop by and be… _obnoxious._

Clint’s thought about asking – more than once – why they don’t go back to wherever Bucky’s staying. He never dwells on that too long, though. Bucky could be in a cramped little motel; or a traveller’s hostel, somewhere that doesn’t allow guests. He could be on the top floor of an upscale hotel when they’re apart, getting room service and drinking champagne. Or maybe he’s grifting on the street. But, when his arm is hooked through Clint’s, whether they’re curled on the sofa or walking down perpetually unfamiliar streets, Clint doesn’t care where Bucky is when they’re not together. “Yeah, I think so?”

“Did you talk about it?” Clint should know better than to be startled when Peter leans over the side of his roof, Kate appearing beside him a moment later. “Really talk, Clint, not just that thing you do?”

“What thing?”

“You know...” Kate is swinging off the roof, forcing both him and Natasha into the trailer as she vaults down. “… dancing around the topic, but never really _saying_ anything.”

He lives alone, and Clint’s trailer is the smallest one in the convoy. It’s getting crowded with the three of them already in the trailer; Peter makes it downright tightly cramped as he pushes in behind Kate. There isn’t a reprieve as Coulson carefully nudges the teens out of the immediate entry. “It’s true that you don’t have the best track-record for this sort of thing, Hawkeye.”

“Perhaps we could help you figure out how serious this _thing_ is.” Wanda nods gently, shooing Pietro ahead of her before she _locks_ the trailer door behind him.

Up against the full force of what has swiftly become an unannounced family meeting, Clint has no choice but to surrender. He drops onto the far corner of his couch with a sigh, in no small part because there are five other people piled in here with him, and they’ll be stuck in his kitchen like sardines if he doesn’t move. Clint settles with elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, then takes a deep breath. “Fine.”

The assemblage must have expected more resistance; there’s a good half minute of near-silence as they look between each other, then rearrange themselves to fit better onto any sit-worthy surface in the trailer. Natasha is on the couch beside him, with Wanda looming up behind her, balanced on the arm. Phil ends up in the only other upholstered chair Clint has ever owned, sinking down until his knees are just about in his arm-pits. Katie-Kate spins around a dinette chair to straddle it, while Peter just sits on the table itself. Pietro stays by the door, almost nonchalant in his slouch into the wall if not for his shit-eating grin.

Clint lifts a hand to run through his hair. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

The questions only trickle to a stop because they have to get ready for tonight’s performance. Peter and Pietro are the first to go; Pete satisfied once he realizes that – _‘No’_ – Clint isn’t _always_ treating on these dates, Pietro once he confirms that Clint and Bucky haven’t gone farther than necking. Kate and Wanda hang in longer, but Wanda’s pre-show routine and setup take a while, and Kate seems to be getting bored with the whole thing. It comes down to just Clint, Phil, and Natasha sitting around in what passes for Clint’s living room.

“I still don’t like it.”

“ _You_ don’t have to, ‘Tasha.” Clint’s rolled his eyes so many times in the last thirty minutes that he’s surprised they haven’t spun right out of his skull. He meets her pinched expression with an exasperated sidelong glance. “You’re not dating him.”

“So this _is_ dating, then?” Phil’s fingers are steepled beneath his chin, but – otherwise – he looks exactly as he did when he first sat down.

“Yeah. Yes, it is.” Clint crosses his arms over his chest, jaw set as his gaze shifts from the woman beside him to the man across. “And – honestly – it’s pretty damn nice to have someone like Bucky in my life right now, alright?”

“Just as long as you’re aware of it.” There’s a sigh over to his right as Phil pushes himself up from Clint’s chair, hands sliding the wrinkles out of his slacks. “We don’t want you having another Bobbi situation on your hands, Hawkeye. That’s all.”

“It’s not like that. It’s just… comfortable with Bucky. Like I’ve known him forever.”

“Good then.” Phil’s hand claps against Clint’s shoulder, then slides down into his trouser pocket. He tips his head slightly toward the door. “We should get a move on; curtain’s up at six tonight.”

Natasha’s still watching them both from her seat on the sofa. She stands with exaggerated care, stepping into Clint’s space as she narrows her eyes upwards at him. “If he hurts you…” That hangs in the air a few seconds before she nods gently, leaning in to give him a half hug. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I am.” Clint says it, and he _means_ it.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Bucky doesn’t come to their first show in Schenectady, nor their second, or even their third. It means Clint ends up not seeing him for four days. That’s harder than he expects; time with Bucky has slowly crept its way into being part of Clint’s usual routine. He’s thrilled when he looks up on Tuesday to see the familiar form at the back of the house before the show starts, giddy as he waves the patrons out afterwards. Clint isn’t surprised when Bucky doesn’t pass him on the way out; as shy as he is, Bucky _would_ find a way to sneak out and avoid the other performers.

It’s maybe a little unfair – asking his family to back off until Clint introduces them – but Clint doesn’t feel like sharing Bucky just yet. A part of him is still mildly concerned they’d be too much. There might not be issues with Nat or Phil, or even Peter, but Pietro and Wanda for sure. If nothing else, they’re both tall enough to loom and make Bucky uncomfortable. There’s no telling with Kate; she’s surprisingly _loud_ when she’s sharing her opinion. Especially if it’s negative.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Bucky is waiting by Clint’s door when he gets there, and – thank goodness – no one else seems to have noticed him standing beside it. He’s in his usual coat, but his hair is up today, the top half pulled back into a little ponytail at the back of his head. It makes his eyes easier to look at, so Clint certainly isn’t going to complain. He presses a light kiss to the end of Bucky’s nose as the other man steps in to hug him. “Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”

“Too long?” Bucky’s voice is heavy with concern.

“No. Just feels that way. Would you, uhm…” It’s a terrible, terrifying idea – born purely from going through so many days of withdrawal from lacking the other man’s company – but Clint desperately wants Bucky to stay. The circus isn’t running any shows on Wednesday, and Clint is ahead on most of his duties outside of his act; he’s got nowhere to be tomorrow, and Bucky is right here tonight. “Would you like to come in?”

“But my pants are clean.” Bucky grins up at him, eyes bright under the parking lot lights.

“Mine aren’t.” Neither is the rest of him, thoughts included. Clint pulled double duty tonight – stepping in for Steve in the gymnastic act mid-show _and_ ending out the night – and even though he did half of it in someone else’s costume, he’s still a sweaty, dusty mess in his own. He probably smells awful, too. Inviting Bucky in means leaving him in the trailer while Clint showers, and the implications of that? Maybe they’ve reached that point? Clint certainly wouldn’t _mind…_ “Stay?”

“You’re sure?” With the way Bucky asks, it almost sounds like their situations are reversed; like it’s Clint being invited into… _something._

Still, at least Bucky’s courteous. Clint opens the door with a nervous giggle. “Please?”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

It’s not a _thing_ yet, and it doesn’t have to be, Clint reminds himself. Bucky is just sitting in his living room – something he’s done nearly every time they’ve seen each other – with his peacoat in his lap, fake left arm bent at an angle and resting across the coat, right arm on the back of the couch. He’s smiling up at Clint with those crystalline blue eyes, pleasant and guileless. Clint knows he might be about to break something between them as he asks. “Do you mind waiting while I get cleaned up?”

“More than I mind waiting through any other time _not_ spent with you?” Bucky chuckles at his own teasing, and a few hairs slip from his tie, drifting down into his eyes.

“Nothing keeping you from coming with me.” Clint isn’t sure where the bravado comes from; his cheeks colour instantly as he backs toward the other end of the trailer. He shuffles away, closing the bathroom door behind him, his own mortified face grimacing at him from the mirror mounted on the back.

Bucky’s laughter echoes on the other side of the thin door, reaching his ear just as Clint steps under the shower.

At least the guy hasn’t left. _Yet._ That was a such a fucking stupid thing to say. Clint stands under the spray – cranked as hot as he can handle it – and scrubs himself clean, top to bottom; maybe he can wash off all the idiocy that’s drifting around him today. It’s one dumb thing – very, _very_ dumb – but he can fix this. Bucky hasn’t left, and Clint isn’t going to push. They can just curl up and rewatch that movie they did the first time Bucky dropped by; Clint found a used DVD in a rental store that was closing down during their trip into town for supplies. He can make some popcorn, maybe grab each of them a beer, and they can be just like they have been. It’s a good plan, one that might make his guest feel more comfortable after Clint’s embarrassing display a few minutes ago. A plan Clint is focused on so intently that he doesn’t notice the door opening on his left, or the dark-haired head poking cautiously into the steam-filled room.

Clint isn’t aware until a cool hand lands on his shoulder, until he whirls around to stare into pale blue eyes. “Buc-!” Chapped lips meet his, and Clint leans out of the shower – away from the scalding blast of the water – arms reaching to draw Bucky closer. The hot water runs out faster than it should, going icy a few moments after they start kissing. Clint jumps, pushing forward to get away from the frigid spray, until he’s backed the shorter man up against the mirrored door.

Bucky pulls away, shyly glancing up through dark lashes. “Hope it’s okay that I joined you?”

It’s more than okay. Much, much more, and Clint is left at a loss as how to answer. Inanity seems to be his go-to tonight, though. “Your clothes are wet.”

“Didn’t you say that was bad? Wet clothes in winter?”

Clint nods around the lump growing in his throat. It is. Bucky could really have a problem, standing around in sopping clothes like that. Clint certainly has a problem right now. Bucky’s so cold-natured to begin with, though. Cold hands, warm heart… Warm _elsewhere_ , given the way he’s pressed in against Clint from the knees up. They ought to get him out of those wet clothes either way, right?

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint doesn’t quite remember how they got back to his bed. There must have been towels because he’s dry. Bucky must have undressed, taken off his prosthetic at some point, because he’s certainly not wearing his arm or dressed now, body bared to Clint’s eyes. Bucky is perfect – alabaster everywhere – pale skin over lean muscle every place his hands touch, just a bit cool beneath Clint’s fingers. Even the place where his shoulder stops at nothing is smooth, the scars looking more like spiderwebs, or cracks across thin ice where they radiate outward. Bucky shivers as Clint’s hand brushes down, across that empty area and along his side. He hopes that’s a good thing, but he still needs to ask, nervous that he isn’t the cause, that Bucky might actually be too cold. “I can get another blanket?”

“No!” Bucky’s forcefulness startles them both, the other man looking away in embarrassment as his fingers clench on Clint’s arm. “Don’t go?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“I can’t promise that, and neither can you.”

Faster than Clint can blink, this shoots right past any talk of getting a second quilt. He pulls Bucky close, rolling them both to their sides, and kisses him gently.

“I’ll come back.” Another kiss; Clint pressing just a bit more, until Bucky responds. “I’ll always come back to you.” It’s a mistake – a stupid pillow promise – and he’s not sure what makes him go so far. Clint can’t take it back; not here and not now, when Bucky beams back at him before catching Clint’s lip in his teeth. He’s too busy trying to keep his own voice low as Bucky’s hand slips lower; the trailer walls are insulated against wind, not sound. They can talk later. This is more important. _Much more._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint wakes to find Bucky lifting the blankets as he sits up in bed. It’s still dark beyond the curtains, his clock reading three a.m. The man beside him looks peaked, not flushed, but a little clammy. Clint lifts a hand to rub against his back, scooting to perch beside him. “Bucky? Are you okay? If that was too much-”

“I’m alright. Just got a little overheated. Can I-” Bucky’s almost whining. “Clint, can I have a glass of water?”

“Yeah. Sure, of course.” Clint slides out of bed, squeaking when his feet hit the cold floor, and scuttles to the kitchen.

“Could you… is there any ice?”

Clint could probably just open the window; knock an icicle right off the side-view mirror and into Bucky’s glass, but he pulls a few cubes from the tiny freezer drawer instead. Bucky takes the glass with a grateful nod, leaning into his side when Clint resumes sitting next to him. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yes.” Bucky chuckles, still sounding embarrassed and flustered as he answers. “You’re just too hot.”

Clint feels himself getting almost squeamish at the compliment. Bucky’s the hot one – the beautiful one – not him. Clint’s got so many scars – from running, from injuries, from all those years with Barney and one too many times letting Nat practice her skills on a live target – and bruises from work and practice. For shit’s sake, he’s broken his nose three times. Or is it four? Enough that he’s forgotten, and it’s never going to look straight from any angle. Bucky looks like a statue by comparison; even without the arm, he reminds Clint of the glassy looking sculptures that always showed up in the park during the winter when he was a kid, vitreous perfection smiling back until they vanished with the spring thaw.

He tries to take the compliment for what it is, but Clint doesn’t feel like he deserves it. “I guess...”

“You are. It’s a lot to handle.”

So are those words. Clint contents himself to nod, to get Bucky a second glass of water after he chugs the first, to ask if there’s anything else he needs.

“Would you mind if I was by the window?”

It _is_ a little cooler on the side of the bed that abuts the camper wall. That windowneeds to be re-sealed; thinking about it, Clint isn’t sure he’s touched that one since Barney was alive. “It’s a little draughty.”

“Might help?”

Clint steps back onto the chilled floor of the camper to give Bucky room to scoot over, then slides in behind him. He drifts back off tucked close against the other man’s back, Bucky’s cold toes pressed to his calves.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Bucky staying over isn’t something Clint plans on making an every night thing, but – after a second time, and then a third; after yet another relocation, this time up to Manchester – he doesn’t mind when he realizes Bucky’s in his bed more nights than not. After their third _sleepover_ – which doesn’t involve nearly as much _sleeping_ as it probably should –Clint finally bites the bullet and asks Bucky to stay for family breakfast. He should have done it earlier; his family more than deserves to actually meet the guy Clint’s already finding himself falling in love with.

It’s at the big table in Phil’s trailer, though Clint manages to talk Logan and Nat into cooking so nobody dies. More difficult than getting dressed and leaving his own bed is trying to not go tomato red and mute when Wade shouts his joy at finally getting to meet _Hawkeye’s Hottie._ Bucky’s response – “I think I’m cooler than I am hot.” – is just the kind of quirky humour Clint’s gotten used to, and seems to endear him to enough of the troupe that Wilson is kept in check for the meal.

As expected, a few people are slower to warm up to him; Clint honestly worries as Natasha mutters to herself in Russian over her toast. Bucky laughs at her – and _winks?_ – nodding his head as he replies. Whatever he says, it must be funny. ‘Tasha snorts; hard enough that she has to cough into her elbow, and then her napkin. That settles something between them; Clint can even see Phil’s rigid posture relax a bit where he sits at the head of the table.

Bucky reaches for Clint under the table, fingers squeezing his hand, warming Clint despite – as always – being cool to the touch.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

“You have a cat?” The little white animal curls in Clint’s lap, stretching out one pink-toed paw to bat at his hand before letting him pet her.

“She travels with me, yes.” Bucky brings her with him when he walks up to meet Clint outside the bookstore, cat trotting beside him on her short little leash.

Clint is surprised when the shop allows it, but no one seems to pay any mind. He’s certainly glad she’s here. Yes, he can pet Shuri’s cats now and then, but they’re not very interested in him; they really only _like_ her, barely tolerating anyone else for more than a few pets. Bucky’s cat, by comparison, is more than content to sit on his lap, at least for the moment. Clint fingers the collar around her neck; blue and old, just like Bucky’s coat. It’s got stripes on it, faded to different degrees, like there might once have been something banding the centre of it. “What’s her name?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” As often happens, Bucky doesn’t give him a simple answer; or a very sensible one.

 _Still._ “Alright, little kitty, what’s your name?”

The cat turns her head, blinking up at him, blue eyes wide as she mewls softly.

It’s an answer, if not a very good one. “Well, that doesn’t help at all, now does it?”

She seems offended at Clint’s response, scrambling out of his lap. The cat claws her way up the empty left sleeve of Bucky’s coat, nose pressing his cheek. Bucky reaches up to scratch beneath her chin, flashing Clint a grin. “That was a little rude, after she answered you so politely.”

“Bucky, I couldn’t exactly _understand_ her.”

“Really?” With the way he’s smirking, Clint can’t tell if Bucky is laughing at his answer, or at the fact that – _No_ – he doesn’t speak cat.

He decides to change the subject and leave the cat alone for now. “How come you’ve never told me you had a cat?”

“She’s not really _mine_.” She certainly seems like his cat, slinking down into his lap to curl up on his jeans, one paw batting the silver buttons of his peacoat. “But I can talk her into visiting with me once in a while?”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Bucky’s not always there when he wakes up; the cat stays sometimes, waiting by the door for Clint to let her out. It’s strange – Clint is an early riser, which leaves him wondering whether Bucky is getting enough sleep – but Bucky often returns later in the morning or early afternoon, giving them a bit of time together before Clint needs to get ready. And, of course, Bucky’s always there when Clint drags himself into bed. They might not be able to do much more than kiss and curl up together before Clint drifts off to sleep, but at least Bucky’s here, now regularly accompanied by his semi-nameless cat. Bucky’s smaller form fits well tucking in against him; fit, slim, and distinctly cold-natured as he curls in Clint’s arms or snuggles against his back. It’s like sleeping next to a cuddly little heat-sink, but Clint doesn’t mind too much.

But then there are some nights like this one, nights when Clint can push back against the exhaustion long enough for them to get somewhere a little past sleepy necking. They’re in _another_ Manchester – Rhode Island instead of Connecticut this time – and Bucky’s pulling him in for a one-armed hug, right side tucked against the wall with Clint’s head in the crook of his armless shoulder.

Clint strokes a hand along Bucky’s cheek, tracing just the barest hint of stubble, brushing down his neck to run his fingers across the tiny chain Bucky sometimes wears, looped through a simple gold band. From this angle, he can make out a _B_ , and a curve that draws to a point – the side of a heart, maybe? – carved on the inside. He’s never asked about it, and Bucky’s never said anything, either. It’s one more strange little thing about the man sharing his bed, but Clint trusts him. He’d better, after the night they’ve just had. Morning, really. _Perfect_ morning, if Clint’s being honest.

The cat is stretched across the foot of his bed, lazily attacking their feet through the blankets. Clint has only just managed to keep his legs under him to bring back two glasses of water. Snuggled in against his lover, though, it doesn’t really matter that he’s got a case of post-coital clumsiness; Bucky doesn’t care, so neither does he. “Thank you.”

Bucky’s head snaps downward, hand clenching where it rests against Clint’s back. “What?”

It’s not the reaction Clint expects – he was trying to reassure Bucky, since they hadn’t exactly done _that_ before – and now the other man seems unusually terse, all things considered. “I... I mean, it was nice. Getting to be with you, like that?”

“Oh…” The frigid glare melts off of Bucky’s face, leaving him looking even softer than he did before as he presses a kiss to Clint’s forehead. He brushes their noses together with a chuckle. “Me too, doll. You don’t have to – ya know…”

“Thank you?”

“Yeah. Not for that.” Bucky kisses him fully, then brushes Clint’s bangs out of his eyes. “Not for anything, really, not ever. You’re special, Clint. Whatever I’m doing, it’s because I want to. Because it makes you happy. Because you _deserve_ it.”

“Bucky, c’mon.” Clint doesn’t _want_ to frown, but he can’t help it. “Don’t be unreasonable. That’s not fair to you.”

“Fair? Stupid notion.” Perfect teeth tug at Clint’s lower lip before Bucky pulls back to smirk at him. “Love’s not fair, and neither am I.” His hand grips tightly against the back of Clint’s shoulder – pressure firm, almost sharp – probably hard enough to leave a light bruise. Right now, with Bucky’s teeth working down along his neck, Clint doesn’t mind all that much.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint wakes up to sun streaming through his window, an empty bed, and a rapid knocking against his door. That last one is hard to make out at first, before he pulls his right ear up from the pillow, the down no longer muffling the staccato drumming. He yanks on his shorts and shouts. “Come in.” It’s not like his performance clothes leave all that much to the imagination; whoever it is probably won’t give a shit. Clint makes a beeline for his counter, his back to the door as he hunches over the now burbling coffee pot.

“Hel-loo…” The teasing lilt of Carson’s resident _cat lady_ is unmistakable as she steps up into the trailer.“I am guessing somebody had a fun nigh-? Clinton!” Shuri draws out his name in an affronted sounding hiss, like each syllable is its own word, and both of them are curses. “What on earth happened to your _back?”_

The tiny but obnoxious remaining shred of Clint’s shame rears its head as he shrugs, unable to look back and meet her eyes. There’s probably at least one set of handprint bruises on his shoulder blade – and likely another just above his waistband – but it’s either let Shuri keep looking at what she’s already seen, or turn around and face her incredulous young face looking up at him. It’s not at all fair; she’s barely older than Pete. “Fun night?”

“That left _blisters?”_

“What?” Now Clint does turn around, head cocked to one side. Nothing that happened last night would have even left a welt, let alone blistering. “No, nothing that crazy?”

“ _That_ looks pretty crazy to me.” Delicately, Shuri reaches around to prod his side.

It _feels_ strange, and Clint can see what looks a lot like a flat, wide blister – exactly in the shape of Bucky’s thumb – resting just above the line of his boxers.

“I’m serious, Clint; what are _those?”_

“None of your business, your majesty.” It sounds better than _No damn idea._ Clint’s not sure why those little squishy welts are on his side and back, but they don’t hurt, not really; not when Shuri isn’t prodding at them. He bats her hands away, then pours himself a cup of coffee.“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Someone told me they heard a cat whining out near your trailer, but... By the state of you, I would hazard they were mistaken?” The worry in her tone is mostly subsumed by the teasing; Shuri might seem decorous and polite, but she’s just as eager for raunchy dirt as everyone else.

“Bucky’s cat stays over sometimes?” Clint’s not sure where the white ball of fluff is, though under the bed is a good guess. He peers beneath the edge of the raised platform holding his mattress, looking around the storage boxes that live beneath. There’s no cat, but his hand lands in a puddle in the spot below the window where she often sleeps. “Aww, kitty, no…” Clint pulls his fingers away, expecting a mess, only to realize that it seems – certainly _smells_ – like nothing more than water. _Weird_. That window hasn’t been leaking at all before now.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

February rolls into March, Manchester gives way to Scranton, then State College, then Baltimore, and now it’s almost spring, and time for Carson’s to start off for better weather; for spring festivals and county fairs, for green that isn’t fighting its way back from a freeze. They’re leaving in the morning. Their destination – Suffolk – isn’t exactly tropical, but it’s going to feel that way after all this time. Sure, the city might have had a record snowfall, but that was five inches back in December; it’s going to be in the sixties, which is practically bikini season, as far as Clint’s concerned.

He’s stretched across the sofa with Bucky laying over him. His boyfriend has left his arm wherever he also leaves the cat, and is dozing atop his chest. Bucky hasn’t been feeling too well this week, and Clint is concerned all the travelling is finally catching up to the other man. That worry is confirmed when Bucky stirs, blinking up at him, smiling despite the dark circles beneath his eyes. “I… probably won’t make it to Virginia, doll.”

“Yeah. I figured.” Clint smooths the dark hair out of those pretty blue eyes. “You just need to take a break for a while. This isn’t for everyone.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“It’s fine. I’ll see you, again, right? After Suffolk?”

Bucky pushes up, palm braced on the cushion beside Clint as he looks down at him, seeming almost on the verge of tears. “I’ll try, Clint. I promise.”

“Soon?”

“Whenever I’m able.” Bucky lowers himself back down, hand lifting to Clint’s face, thumb tracing along the edge of his jaw. “And – I promise you, Clint – I’ll always come back to you. _Always.”_

Clint twines their fingers together, squeezing Bucky’s hand. It’s cool and clammy, palm damp in his grip as Clint kisses against the back. “I know, Bucky.”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Going from sub-freezing temperatures for most of the day to temperate, t-shirt and jeans weather is a shock to all the systems. Everyone in the troupe goes a little bit crazy now that they’re somewhere thawed; somewhere that hasn’t seen snow in months. They usually take a week for transition because they all need to adjust. They’re mentally out of it or physically out of it or – in lots of cases – both. Spring has already arrived this far south, hitting them full force with allergies and warm weather colds.

Clint feels like he sleeps for a good three days after they park, getting up only to eat and make it to the toilet as his hay fever plays havoc with his head. Getting sick, then recovering just in time to slam out a week’s worth of shows leaves him too worn out to pay much notice to the empty spaces in his bed and heart now that Bucky isn’t here. They haven’t been apart for more than a week in two months and – though Clint trusts his feelings and his lover’s words – it’s hard to handle when he has time to think about it.

The first week of April hooks them northward again, up to Morgantown. Here, the last vestiges of winter are stubbornly hanging on, icicles and the tiniest of snow drifts still fighting to survive in deep corners and on the sides of cliffs, tucked back into the places the sun can’t quite reach. No one that comes in needs more than a heavy wind-breaker or a light wool jacket. If Bucky _were_ here, his old favourite coat would actually be just about perfect for the weather. But he isn’t – not the first night or the second – though Clint has a moment where he swears he sees Bucky during their third show. He’s backstage when he spots that familiar, sought after silhouette in the back row of the auditorium. Clint lifts his hand in a little wave from the wings, hoping that Bucky knows where to look for him, too, after all this time. The figure shifts, but doesn’t return the gesture. When Clint goes out to perform, that back row seat looks empty.

Bucky isn’t part of the stream of visiting attendees that pass him by on their way out the door, and he isn’t waiting back at the trailer, either. Clint wonders if he imagined it; if he’s so lonely without Bucky’s presence that he mistook someone – or _no one_ – for the dark-haired man. He cleans up and tucks in, but he can’t sleep. Clint finds himself sneaking back into the auditorium under the pretence of having access and not giving a shit at the moment because he needs to _know_ , damnit. He stalks his way up to the back row, scooting through narrow seats until he comes to the one on the end.

Clint isn’t sure what he expects to find – Bucky or a note or what – but there’s no one and nothing, and- No, there’s something; wedged into the back of the folding seat is a ball cap with a tattered brim. Clint’s seen the hat enough times to recognize it, even soaking wet. He takes it back to his trailer and puts it on the counter to dry.

It’s a long time before he falls asleep, slipping into dreams of cold nights and ice-blue eyes.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint doesn’t know what the fuck he was thinking. Or _if_ he was thinking. Now, all he _can_ think is that he let himself get played all those months by pretty eyes and a soft voice, and he’s damn pissed about it. Of course, there isn’t anything he can do. There’s no number to call or delete, no way to get in touch with the man that stole his heart and stomped on it.

He considers burning Bucky’s hat, but he can’t. He just… _can’t_. It goes to live on the shelf above _TrickShot’s_ old uniform, shoved into the same back corner of Clint’s closet where his family photos and Bobbi’s ring box have been living. Clint puts it where he doesn’t have to look at it ever again, even if he still knows it’s there. It’s not much, but it’s all he can do right now; pack up and paper over it, so he can try to move on.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

‘Tasha starts dropping by again, like she did when Barney died, sitting beside him while he fumes. Phil prods the edges of the subject, but never brings it up directly. Kate slams through his purple front door a month after Morgantown and drags him out for practice.

That helps. Hour after hour of sight-draw-release – of shooting bullseyes into the purple target painted on the side of the trailer – with Kate flowing through the same motions beside him, until they’re moving more like one mind in two bodies. She’s good, and arguably skilled enough to be more than just Clint’s understudy. She deserves a promotion.

And Clint? Well, he thinks he deserves a fucking break.

Since the day he first agreed to work for the circus – back when old man Carson still ran things and was more than willing to hire in kids off the street –Clint’s never had a vacation. He’s had the off season, but that wasn’t any sort of holiday. As a kid, he’d used it to cram his studies, to get his GED by correspondence. For the last two decades, though, it’s been the time he took care of things; his trailer or Peter or the day-to-day that’s kept Carson’s chugging along, even with its founder having long since passed over.

He couldn’t afford to take time, not before. But Nat’s better with the numbers than he is, anyway, and they have younger guys now – Pietro and Wade, even Peter if it’s something that doesn’t require _finesse_ – so Clint doesn’t have to do so much of the upkeep on his own.

Still, there was always the act. _His_ act, but maybe not _only_ his, any longer. Kate Bishop is good. As good as he is, and without nearly as many years of training under her belt. She’s got to work on her flexibility, and on the showy tricks that bring the biggest cheers, but she’s got a good eye and fantastic aim, and Clint can’t teach that. Phil agrees; they’re going to need to redo the playbill for September to feature _two_ archers.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint’s birthday usually marks the start of their _vacation,_ which, really, is just code for _running shows somewhere decent for summer._ Everyone is still expected to show up – to work their asses off – but these are some of their better performances, if only because they can pause in their sojourning and sleep on regular schedules. Staying in Raleigh means it’s humid as fuck in their show gear, and that they’re battling mosquitoes every moment there isn’t a breeze blowing, but he doesn’t care. Clint will take bugs and chafing over freezing his nuts off any day.

Birthday shots are mandatory after the show, along with a motley selection of gifts. They’re mostly things he needs; arrow shafts, rosin, a new pair of boots since his finally died with the spring thaw, a dog collar. A _dog collar?_ From _Peter?!_ Clint is having something very close to a meltdown as he looks up because – yeah, he might not be Spidey’s dad, but – he’s basically raised Pete for the better part of a decade, and he isn’t sure what the kid’s thinking, giving him this.

Peter freezes under Clint’s stare, nervously giggling before turning to Kate. She runs to the trailer she shares with Wanda, coming back a moment later with something big and hairy and _moving._ She drops the dog onto Clint’s lap with a rush of anxious words and a flurry of waving hands. She didn’t _buy_ the dog, she _found_ him – at a shelter, where she just _happened_ to be looking –and Clint’s the only guy in the troupe without a roommate. It just doesn’t make sense for her to keep him, and Clint loves dogs, right? He’s been kind of bummed out since March, so now he doesn’t have to be lonely.

Clint blinks, looking slowly between two pairs of apprehensive human eyes and a single soft puppy one. He pets the dog. The dog takes that as permission to lick across the middle of his face, then sprawl out on his back over Clint’s lap, shamelessly begging for tummy rubs. And that’s that, isn’t it?

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

The dog’s name is Lucky, which is both an awkward reminder of the man whom Clint is fairly certain the dog was meant to replace, as well as kind of twisted given how _unfortunate_ Lucky’s life has been to this point. He’s probably not much past two or three – barely more than a puppy – but he’s lived a hard life. The missing eye is pretty obvious, much more so than the nipped ear and the scars beneath his fur.

He’s affectionate and snuggly, but not to the point that it gets annoying, unless Clint’s eating pizza; then the dog is like a crust-seeking missile. There _are_ times when Clint has to wonder if his having a dog was really just an excuse for Kate to get one and then not have to keep it in her trailer, but at least he knows Lucky is getting plenty of walks. Plus, Clint’s already planning to share the name and spotlight with her; sharing the dog is probably a small step by comparison.

Lucky is a good boy – all dogs are, at heart – and Clint loves him, even if he’s too big to fit in a lap. Even if he jumps onto the bed in the middle of the night, curling against Clint’s back and making him hope, for a brief moment, that he’ll wake up to find someone else back there. Even if sometimes Clint accidentally pronounces _Lucky_ with a _B._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

It’s already November, and Clint worries – not for the first time – if he can handle this yearly tradition. They hit Ann Arbour back in August, and it was a head-fuck being so close to where Clint met _him_ , but he came out alright. Phil is doing his best to plan around their last trip – sticking close to the same route, but stopping them in different cities – keeping their itinerary just different enough, and even waiting longer than usual to take them northward for the season. It’s thoughtful of him, though it means starting their winter season in Iowa, of all godforsaken places. Dubuque in November isn’t _great_ , but it’s better, and that’s got to be enough. Clint hopes he’ll be able to stand it.

In spite of the brave face he puts on – shrugging off Peter’s pre-show check-in and ‘Tasha’s offer to help him suit up – Clint’s not sure about going out there tonight. He can’t help wanting to look out into the crowd, hoping that he’ll see who he’s searching for. He stays in his trailer until he absolutely can’t any longer, then heads out, kicking at the sugar-fine flakes dusting the asphalt.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

The audience is quiet as Hawkeye steps out. They know what to expectwhen someone walks onto the high-wire above them, or when the spotlight lands on a woman with knives gleaming at her hip; people are usually unsure – even confused – when somebody appears in the ring with a bow and arrow.Archery tricks aren’t always _amazing_ until they’re finished, but the first one is flawlessly executed, and applause swells to fill the air.

Clint smiles from the wings.

Katie-Kate is doing a great job out there. Putting her in every other show has been a big help; it’s freed him up to do all of his other jobs, and she’s more than earned wearing their shared title. Plus, the coin flip went in his favour today, so he didn’t have to drag his ass out there tonight.

The crowd is hanging on her every move, all eyes on her. _Almost_ all. There’s a guy – long hair, back of house, left side – scanning the venue like he’s looking for someone. Halfway through Kate’s act, he stands, pulling on his coat and heading for the exit.

Clint follows.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Bucky is sitting on his stoop when he gets there, hair drifting around his face, head tipped back against the purple door. He leaps to his feet as Clint approaches, right arm reaching, left-side prosthetic hanging in the sleeve of his coat. “Clint, I-”

“Make it quick. I have to get back to the show, soon.” He cuts the shorter man off, stopping far enough away that Bucky can’t reach him. Clint crosses his arms over his chest; partly because he’s out here with no coat, partly because – even after all this time – he’s still tempted to pull his ex-lover into a hug. “What are you doing here, Bucky?”

“I… I told you I’d come back.”

“Yeah.” Clint nods, glowering down his nose. “Took you long enough.”

“I can only travel where I _can_ , Clint.” Bucky’s tugging at the edge of his left cuff with his right hand. “I couldn’t-”

“We were in Ann Arbor for two fucking weeks, Bucky!” Clint turns away long enough to run a hand through his hair and sigh. “Detroit’s not that far.”

“Clint, I couldn’t _.”_ Bucky steps forward, forcing Clint to back up, right hand reaching out again.“I missed you every moment, but I... I came as soon as I could.”

“I’ll bet.”

“It’s the truth.” Bucky actually stomps his foot, timed perfectly with a gust of icy wind that sends his hair fluttering across his face. He stares at the ground between them, voice dropping to a whisper Clint just can make out over the breeze still whistling around them in the lot. “I could never lie to you.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“I _couldn’t_ … I didn’t _want_ to leave, but I _had_ to, Clint… and I came back.”Bucky’s almost in tears, and a tiny, desperate part of Clint is glad for it. Bucky hurt him. He left – just like everyone _always leaves_ – and Clint can’t help thinking the shorter man deserves to hurt a little. Bucky clearly wasn’t dead; he’s got no fucking excuse for disappearing all those months, leaving Clint to drag the pieces of himself back together.Still, his heart aches leaving Bucky standing there, lip quivering and voice wet. “I’ll always come back to you. I promised: _Always.”_

Clint wants to leave – to go inside and slam the door right back in Bucky's face; to turn away and go back to see Kate’s finale – but he can’t. Clint _can’t._

Bucky’s here; real enough to see, close enough to touch, strange and sorrowful and perfect as ever, and Clint can’t help himself. Love isn’t fair, and, in this moment, neither is Bucky. Clint uncrosses his arms, and takes a step forward. Another. And another. Clint closes the space between them and pulls Bucky into his arms, clutching the smaller man tightly. He hears the slightest sound of pain or protest – he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care – before muting those cool lips, silencing them with his own. It’s not a gentle kiss. Clint presses hard, sucking and biting; he pulls away feeling an answering sting at his mouth.

Barely blue eyes blink up at him, startled and hopeful.

Clint has to step back, to put both hands on Bucky’s shoulders and push him away. It would be too easy to open the door, otherwise; to invite Bucky in and lose himself to the brunet all over again. Clint can’t risk what little of his heart is left unbroken right now. Not right now.

“I need some time, Bucky.” He needs to run, that’s what Clint needs to do. He needs to get away from the man staring back at him like he hung the fucking stars; to hold onto his bitterness, if only to paper over the yearning, the need to drag Bucky back through his purple door and leave the rest of the world to the snow. Clint runs his hand through his hair, head shaking. “Tuesday. We’ll talk after the show on Tuesday, and you better have some damn good answers for me.”

They’re leaving again Wednesday morning. Clint can run then; make a clean break of it and leave once he’s had time to get his words right. “Tuesday. Last show starts at nine.”

Bucky’s voice is still breathy as he asks, “Eleven?”

That’s early – the show takes longer than half an hour to pack up, and he’s planning for the possibility of an encore – but Clint doesn’t have any qualms about making Bucky wait, not after all this time. “Sure, eleven.” He nods and shoves his hands back under his arms, turning away before those needy eyes draw him back to Bucky’s embrace.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Though Clint makes it in time for her finale, Katie-Kate doesn’t fail to notice his exit. If anyone would see him leave, it would be _Hawkeye_ , wouldn’t it?She waits until they’re done – all packed up and headed back to their trailers – before she hooks her arm through his, smiling sweetly up at him. Clint knows damn well that he’s not getting out of this easily as she asks, “So, you free for some coffee, Hawkeye?”

“As long as it won’t keep you up past your bedtime, Hawkeye.”

Kate doesn’t pull the punch aimed at his shoulder nearly enough for it to be a joke.

Clint’s still rubbing the spot as he swings open his trailer door, letting her enter before him; she can’t hit him so easily when he’s behind her. He doesn’t miss her glare as he starts the coffee pot dripping and settles across from her at his tiny dining table. “So…”

“Where the fuck were you?”

“Out?”

“Francis...”

“Elizabeth.”

The coffee maker beeps, and Clint pushes up from the table. He comes back with two steaming cups – one black, one with just a splash of milk – and sets them both on the table; Kate’s glower is almost as dark as the coffee in front of her. Clint sips slowly, trying to think of how to talk his way out of this.

“Was I that bad?”

“What?” _Fuck._ No wonder she’s pissed. “Aww, Katie-Kate, no… You were perfect; way better than I was at your age.” Clint lifts his mug, tipping it in her direction. “Probably better than I am now, honestly. I just… needed a minute?”

“Oh…” There’s a nauseating softness in her gaze as Kate reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. Clint knows that look; the pity seeps into Kate’s voice, too. “It’s just hard for now, Clint. It’ll get better; just might take a little more time. Maybe a change of scenery.”

“Maybe.” His reaction earlier shows otherwise. Clint hasn’t moved on, he isn’t better. He’s willing to take Bucky back right this minute, to forgive the man nearly anything. “What if it doesn’t? If I can’t – ya know – _move on?”_

“Then either you need to be with _him_ ,” Kate’s face pinches bitterly, “or you need a swift kick to the head.” She gulps her coffee, slamming the cup down and standing to refill it. “And I’ll be the first in line to help with that second one.”

“Yeah, I know, just… You’re right, Kate; I need some time. Change of scenery wouldn’t hurt, either.”

“Exactly.” She squeezes Clint’s hand across the table, dark hair drifting into her eyes and – for a moment – it’s not Kate he’s seeing.

“Yeah.” Clint nods and pulls his hand back, wrapping both around the mug. He can’t keep doing this. Not to himself, and not to the rest of the troupe. Their meeting earlier brought back too much, and Clint knows he’s going to have Bucky on the brain for the next two days. He can bull through that, but he _does_ need a break; real time away from the work and the snow and the memories. “So… Look, Katie-Kate; I want you to take over the act for a while.”

She stares at him, jaw slack as she leans forward. “You _what?!”_

“I want you to be _The Amazing Hawkeye._ Singular. Full-time.”

“ _WHY?!”_ Kate shoves the coffee away, hands reaching to cup against his cheeks, pulling him closer. Her voice drops to an anxious whisper, harsh and worried as she asks. “What is going _on_ with you? Are you sick or something?”

 _Heartsick, maybe._ Clint pulls her hands off, still holding them as he leans back a bit. “I need a break, Kate. You can more than handle the act, and being up here – in all _this-”_ He tips his chin towards the window, where the ice is already starting to form as snow clings to the outside of the glass. “- it isn’t helping. I thought I’d be better, but…”

“You’re leaving?”

“Not forever. I’ll come back.” _Fuck_ , now he even _sounds_ like Bucky. Clint shakes his head, meeting Kate’s wariness with a relaxed shrug. “Just a little vacation, since I know the title will be in good hands.”

Kate hides her last look of shock behind a huff and a head waggle, pulling her hands away to cross them over her chest. She scoots back in the chair and leans until she can set her heels on his table. “So _you_ get to run off to someplace tropical, while _I_ stay behind and freeze my tits off doing tricks with all your shafts?”

“You don’t need to make it sound so crude, Hawkeye.” Clint snorts and pushes her feet off, sending her tipping forward again.

“It only sounds like that because your mind is filthy, Hawkeye.” Kate’s swat is genuinely friendly this time. Her giggles subside, though, and she gives him a pensive glance across the table. “You’re really serious about this?”

“Dead serious, Kate.” It might have started as a hare-brained excuse, but the idea of time away is really starting to grow on Clint. He can travel where he wants; let the road and the wind take him where they may. He can’t tell himself it will be all fun – very little of his travelling away from the circus has ever been enjoyable – but it’ll be good for him, and that’s better than nothing. He can finish out these next few performances with a bang, then pass the mantle for a while. It will take a little arranging, but getting his affairs in order is nothing he can’t handle before they head out on Wednesday. “I’ll do the next two days, and that’ll be my last show. I’m going to talk to Phil in the morning.”

“I don’t know, Clint.”

“I do.”

“Fine.” Kate rinses her mug and sets it to dry in the dish-rack. “But we’re gonna have to celebrate my promotion.”

“After the show...” When Clint’s meeting Bucky. _Damnit._ “But I’ll need to get a few things ready. Twelve-thirty?”

“Twelve-thirty it is.” She shoves her hands into her pockets, grinning as she ambles backwards towards the trailer door. “Hey, if I’m gonna be Hawkeye full-time, does that mean I get Lucky full-time, too?”

“I’m already giving you my job, Bishop; at least leave me my dog.” What starts as a side-hug morphs into a full-on clutch when Kate returns the hug, head tucked beneath Clint’s chin. He rubs gently down her back, then disengages to open the door. “It’s not forever, Katie-Kate.”

“You’ll come back?”

“It’s a promise.”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Phil agrees more readily than Clint expects to his request for a vacation; it’s clear he noticed that Clint’s still not quite right, even now. With only the briefest assurance that Kate can handle the whole act on her own, he signs off on Clint’s leave of absence. Carson’s will be down to one _Hawkeye_ act until the troupe gets to Louisville in April, and Clint will have a five month vacation.

Pietro and Wanda both take it well, though Wanda pouts about how she’ll have to handle the idiot all by herself now. Clint assures her that big brothers are _always_ idiots. Pietro tries to look offended, but neither of them believes it.

Clint tells Peter while he’s sitting on the edge of the high-wire platform, watching as the kid he’s known since the day he was born dangles – upside down by his _ankle_ – from the thin line. Pete doesn’t seem happy about it as he scampers back to sit next to Clint, but he understands. Clint hasn’t left for much more than trips to the store or supplies in all these years; never for longer than a day or so. The kid’s wary about it, but – hell – the _kid_ will be eighteen next year, and he’s been a headliner since back when he still needed a retainer.

Clint knows he’ll be alright, and tells him as much. Peter nods, swinging his feet over the side of the platform, spandex and pumping legs reminding Clint of how Spidey used to wear footie pyjamas. How his uniform _kind of_ still looks like them. Peter might say it isn’t funny, but he’s still snickering behind the mask.

Natasha nods slowly from the other end of her couch, lips pressed together. She thinks he should stay. He isn’t expecting that. “You haven’t seemed yourself since then.” She reaches over where Lucky is curled up between them and pats gently against Clint’s thigh, green eyes tipping up to meet his own. “It would be a mistake, leaving before you confront him about it. Or before you decide if that’s what you really want.”

“‘Tasha, the guy’s in the wind for months and you think he’ll come back?” Clint doesn’t think anyone saw Bucky, but he can’t be certain. Natasha is the one person that’s always able to ferret out his secrets. He has to hope it’s only a hunch; that she’s not backing it up with having seen his ex around the night previous. That aside, Clint’s starting to realize things are moving forward, regardless. “I’m not sure what I want matters all that much.”

“I have a feeling; that’s all.” He knows he’s frowning, and Natasha sighs, hand lifting to pat his cheek. “That you’d be happier – that you might _stay_ – if he came back, little bird.”

She only calls him that when he’s being reckless, which – yes – Clint will admit he is. Deciding to quit his job quite literally overnight ranks among the craziest things he’s ever done; definitely number one among choices that didn’t send him to the hospital. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I don’t _need_ to do a good many things, yet I still do them.” Natasha’s light pat turns into a gentle pinch as she tugs his cheek a moment. She straightens up, hands in her lap as she abruptly changes the subject. “So, what do you want for your birthday?”

“I’m not planning to be gone that long, ‘Tasha.”

Her laughter is bright and warm. It rouses the dog; Lucky proceeds to crawl into her lap as Natasha pets over his ragged ears. “And how much of our lives has _ever_ gone as planned?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint chuckles. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’ll be back.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Monday’s show goes off without a hitch; great crowds, perfect performances, no sign of Bucky. Clint hits every mark effortlessly, the audience cheers, the encore is a necessity. Monday’s show is easy.

Tuesday’s show is terrifying, and Clint hasn’t felt this worn, this overwhelmed, since back when he first started headlining; back when he was younger than Peter is now, still short enough that he didn’t have to bend to hug Natasha.

He doesn’t have to look; Clint knows that Bucky is watching tonight. He can feel it. Still, he finds himself scanning down the row until he pauses on a chiseled jaw, a hunched figure wrapped in blue wool, a pair of cold blue eyes that he just can make out from his position in the wings. The weight of Bucky’s gaze makes him shiver, even now, but Clint swallows his nervousness and picks up his bow.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

It’s a good show. He’s been saving some of the better tricks – the complicated ones that take an apprentice shooting in at him from offstage – for this last show tonight, and it was a damn good one. A great one, considering this is Clint’s last main-stage performance for a while. Maybe forever. Who knows? Maybe _he’ll_ be apprenticing for Katie-Kate when he gets back. She’s already started talking about new things she wants to add into the act; there’s no telling how much better she could be, doing the show night after night in his absence.

Kate tells him he’s fooling himself if he thinks his skills are going to get that rusty in just a few months. She cuffs him on the arm with a chuckle. Clint shoos her off with one last request to get the spare key from Spidey and take Lucky for the night since he’ll be over soon, anyway. They’ll have plenty of time to bullshit and plan her changes to the act before he figures out where he’s headed; he can do whatever he wants once he’s on vacation tomorrow, right?

Take-down is a little more involved tonight – always is on their last night anywhere – but Clint finds himself going more slowly than necessary, drawing out each task. It’s surreal; he won’t be doing this tomorrow. Or the night after that. Or after that. Clint won’t be spotting Pete on his way down, or helping Nat and Pietro pack their targets. He won’t be dodging claws and fur as Shuri tries to pry T’Challa and N’Jadaka apart when the cats go after each other, or picking off bits of glitter after Wanda hugs him in costume. He won’t be waiting by the back door to let Logan in after a smoke break, or corralling their more distractible performers – _Wade_ – so they don’t miss Phil’s introductions. Clint won’t be perched on a crate, tracing the lines of reflective purple tape and sequins along the seam of his pants; he won’t be _Hawkeye,_ waiting for his cue to get out there and be amazing.

Although _,_ there’s nothing to stop him from sticking around here; from helping out, at least for a while. Clint might not be pulling on the familiar uniform or stepping into the spotlight, but that won’t stop him from working behind the scenes. He can pull on his jeans and a long-sleeve – maybe even his parka, if it’s chilly like it is tonight – and hang out in the wings like always. Clint’s not going anywhere. Except back to his trailer, now that his work is finished; back home, and back to the man waiting for him there. Just as soon as he changes out of his costume. Clint would rather not go back in his spandex. Not tonight.

It’s quarter ‘til twelve by the time Clint grabs his purple coat, hooking his bow and quiver over his shoulder. Clad in jeans and a light t-shirt under his coat, he trails Natasha out of the auditorium and into the fluttering snow outside. She tucks her arm in his, left hand resting on the inside of his bicep as they walk back to the trailers. There’s snow clinging to her red hair where it wisps from under the edge of her beanie, sticking to the black wool of her long coat, something Clint wishes he had thought to leave backstage. He feels himself tensing, and not only from the cold. Clint hasn’t told her about the upcoming conversation, but he’s not surprised that ‘Tasha picks up on his anxiety. She’s the best friend he’s ever had; of course she’d know.

“What’s on your mind tonight?”

“What we had that conversation about.” Clint nods, more to himself than the woman at his side. “I… I do need to talk to him. I’m going to.”

“Good.”

Yeah. It will be good to get some answers and to get all of the crap of the last few months off his chest. He nods beside her, pulling his arm away to wrap around her shoulder, pulling Natasha into a stumbling hug as they near his trailer. Clint can see something through the blowing white; something dark on his steps, blocking the purple door of his trailer. He straightens, clearing his throat as he offers ‘Tasha a forced smile. “So I’m gonna get on that.”

“Now?”

“Well, I mean-” Clint nods his head toward his trailer, squinting through the flurries.

Natasha turns to follow his gaze, then looks back up at him. “Clint?”

“It’s… nothing.” He shakes his head with a shrug. Natasha’s more right than she knew; there’s no way Clint can move on from this if he’s imagining Bucky’s everywhere, even now. “I’m just gonna – ya know – try to figure that out. What I want and stuff.”

Green eyes pinched, Natasha blinks up at him, face set in a grimace that’s heavy with suspicion. “I’ll see you for coffee in the morning, Hawkeye.”

“Not too early, Widow; tomorrow’s my day off.” Clint gives ‘Tasha a last hug at the door to the camper she shares with Phil. He shoves his hands into his pockets, heading back to his own familiar little rig at the edge of the lot.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Bucky is sitting on Clint’s steps – bent over his knees, left arm hanging stiffly at his side – waiting in exactly the place Clint thought he had been earlier. He doesn’t spring up this time, nor look nearly so excited as he did a few days ago. He’s sober, with his right hand tucked into his coat pocket as he stands beside Clint’s door; jaw tight, pale blue eyes somber, almost cold. Bucky’s hair is loose, drifting around his face as he looks up. “Clint.”

“We’re not having this conversation outside.” Clint pulls the key from his pocket and opens the door, waiting.

His _guest_ nods stiffly, but walks into the little trailer.

Clint follows.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Nothing’s happened, yet; nothing that didn’t happen any number of times when Bucky stopped by before. Bucky is sitting on the edge of his couch, still in his coat, left arm tucked over his lap. Clint is making coffee, pouring two cups that he takes back to the living room. Bucky doesn’t reach for the cup Clint sets on the coffee table. He doesn’t drink coffee, not _real_ coffee, anyway.

Clint leaves his mug and stalks to his closet at the opposite end of the trailer. Bucky’s hat is exactly where it’s been for months, back with all the other memories Clint keeps hidden. One more memento of one more person who left. He tosses it roughly into Bucky’s lap, opting to sit in the chair opposite instead of next to him on the couch. Clint knows himself well enough to recognize a bad idea; if he’s within arm’s length of Bucky, he’s going to want to reach out to him. He picks up his mug, levelling the best scowl he can muster at the man facing him. “So. Why now?”

“This…Sunday was as soon as I could see you.” Bucky fiddles with the silver button at his collar. “But you weren’t there for your act. Is she pushing you out?”

It’s not the sort of answer Clint expects, but he shouldn’t be surprised at this point. Bucky never quite answered his questions when they were together. It’s no different, now; it’s only a little less endearing than it used to be. Clint takes another sip of his coffee. “She’s letting me leave for a while. And what the hell is it to you, anyway?”

Bucky frowns, brows drawing low. “We promised we’d always come back.”

Something blows into the side of Clint’s trailer before he can growl out an answer. It’s probably only garbage carried by the icy gusts across the lot but it startles him just enough to further piss him off. It scratches against the purple door. Clint ignores it, matching Bucky’s scowl with one of his own as he speaks. “Yeah; and then you left.”

“And now I’m here.” Bucky’s fist clenches around the hand in his lap, right hand tightening on the prosthetic one while he glares. “I’m right here, just like I promised.”

“It’s been _seven fucking months_ , Bucky!” Clint leans into the anger, fingers digging into the worn upholstery of his chair. “You said after Suffolk!”

“It _is_ after Suffolk!” Bucky’s voice has never been raised; he’s never yelled around Clint, let alone at him. There’s a sheen on his face and colour in his cheeks, a wet shimmer across his soft blue eyes. “Clint, I can’t go that far, not in the summer, maybe not _ever_.”

“You keep saying that.” Bucky’s spoken like that for so long – with such a tone of absolutism in his words – and it’s never quite made sense, not to Clint. _“‘Can’t.’_ What the hell does that even _mean?”_

“It means _I can’t.”_ Bucky’s right hand clenches where it grips the wrist of his prosthetic, and – even down to one ear like he is – Clint can hear a soft, glassy cracking.

“Just like I can’t drink hot coffee or stray too far from the truth, or even sleep next to you without-” Bucky’s breath hitches. He looks away, fist relaxing, arm trembling; _arms,_ as even the left seems to quiver, wavering where it rests across his lap. Bucky scrubs at his eyes, crystalline tears sliding down his face, sparkling like tiny shards of ice as he brushes them away. “I told you when we first met, didn’t I? That you didn’t have to hold me to keep me there?”

“I’ve never heard you say _anything_ like that.”

“At the hospital.” His right hand drops, tapping against the spot above his heart as Bucky shakes his head. “You heard it here, didn’t you?”

Clint knows damn well that he’s _never_ been in a hospital with the man sitting on his couch. He _hates_ hospitals. Clint’s avoided them since he was four years old, since that day he and Barney held each other after their parents’ accident. Whatever Bucky is talking about, Clint sure as hell doesn’t remember it.

He’s sitting there, staring back at the man he loved – maybe loves still – trying to figure out how to deal with this new insanity when there’s another thump on the side of his trailer. It’s the sound of something small and solid slamming into the battered metal door, scratching as it hits, again. And again. The scrabbling at his door picks up, along with a soft mewling that Clint can hear even over the shrill whistle of the wind.

Bucky smiles sadly, hand lifting to tuck loose hair behind his ear. “You should let her in. She’s missed you, too, you know?”

Clint doesn’t know – not what Bucky’s talking about, or what’s happening outside his trailer, or why he suddenly doesn’t _want_ to know – but checking the door will get him closer to the exit, further from the possible mad man sitting on his sofa.

He doesn’t see anything outside until he looks down, spotting a little white fluff of a cat blinking up from his steps. Ears perked, she twines around Clint’s ankles, then pads into the trailer, waiting just past the entryway. “You brought your cat?”

“She’s not _mine_ , Clint. She never has been.” Bucky shakes his head, smile tipping down and eyes lifting. “You wanted a kitty, even just one, but Barney said they had to stay, didn’t he? She wanted to be your cat, but you left. I knew how she felt…”

Clint stares down at the white cat sitting at his feet, looking soft and fluffy, little pink nose wiggling. There’s a thin coating of ice over her, silvering her whiskers, edging her little collar; it’s blue and striped, and the frozen crystals make it sparkle in the light of the trailer.

“Alpine?”

She mewls softly in reply.

“That’s impossible.” Clint backs away from the cat until he hits the arm of the couch. Instinct sends him over it, scrambling onto the cushion before he even thinks that Bucky is behind him. Clint glances to his right, but Bucky hasn’t moved aside from bending forward a bit.

“I brought her as quick as I could, but you were so far, Clint… and then you gave her back.” Head tilted, Bucky pats his hand against his knee, straightening as the white cat pads over.

Alpine noses the edge of the sofa, but doesn’t touch Clint as she slips past him. She scampers up into Bucky’s lap, pushing his left arm aside as she stretches. It falls from the blue wool sleeve of his coat, landing on the floor with a crunching plop.

Gently stroking between Apline’s ears, Bucky hardly seems to notice the loss.

Clint can’t ignore it, the arm and hand laying on his living room floor, silvery white. As he watches, it wavers, losing its shape, deforming into a runny pile of snow on the trailer floor.

“It’s harder to hold together when it’s hot or… or when I’m upset.”

He snaps his head up to stare at Bucky, who meets Clint with a look of needy sorrow.

Bucky seems on the verge of tears as he turns away, head inclined toward the slowly spreading puddle of water and melted snow at his feet. “It’s not as sturdy, but that’s the best I can do on my own, Clint. It’s never been as good as the one you gave me.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I can’t take my arm places because it melts if I don’t concentrate, and…” Bucky’s words are resigned, almost a little wistful as he pets the cat purring in his lap. “… and I kept Alpine, but I brought the rest home for you, Clint. I brought your family back, so you could be happy.”

“Bucky…” At the sound of his name, the man slumps further into the corner of his sofa; hunched down in his old navy peacoat and ball-cap, marble pale skin and dark hair and glass-bright blue eyes blinking back at him. Clint wonders how he never thought about it, never put it together. How he never really bothered to question the odds. Clint’s always thought it was a strange name, a coincidence, since, before this year, it’s been a name he hadn’t heard for decades. Not since back when he could barely even say it, back when people still thought Clint was an idiot because he couldn’t talk right. Not since long before he found a little white ball of fur, beautiful and perfect and dead at the edge of the parking lot; the first, but not the last.

Clint’s shivering; he isn’t sure if it’s from fear or the cold coming off Bucky in waves. He doesn’t want to ask – doesn’t want to _know_ – but Clint has to. He _has_ to. “Barney?”

“He was drunk. He fell down and he- You were worried, so I tried to bring him home.” Bucky nods slowly, hunching back into the corner. “Even if he wasn’t nice to you. I couldn’t just leave him there. It was an accident.”

Clint looks away, to the floor. Barney was his brother, his family, like his mother. More like his father – because if anyone takes after Edith Barton, it’s Clint – but still, family. Not the family that he could choose, or that liked him, though; Barney was the kind of family that took what little they had and ran, not even leaving an explanation. The kind of family that pulled them out of good homes; that put them on the street time after time; that almost lost them this job more than once. The kind that took without giving back, that _hurt_ him, often, but still… _Still._ “He was my brother.”

“It… it wasn’t on purpose.” Bucky’s reticence gives him pause; not because it sounds remorseful, but because it sounds like he’s hedging.

To Clint, it’s clear that Bucky is hiding something from him; that something has been purposefully omitted from his last sentence. Not a lie – Bucky’s never _actually_ lied to him – but a truth unshared. Barney wasn’t on purpose, but, _Fuck-!_ “The Parkers?”

“No!” Alpine slips from his lap with a grumpy hiss as Bucky snaps rigidly upward. Dark brown hair flutters around his head as he shakes it vehemently. “There was a deer. I wasn’t… I was here, Clint, but I went as soon as I could.” Bucky chews at his bottom lip, nervously tugging with perfect white teeth. “The car was heavy. It took so long, but they needed to come home. Family comes home, right, Clint?”

 _Family comes home._ Words he hasn’t seen in nine years, scribbled across a police report and saved on a photograph in his former phone. Written into the ice on the back window of the old Volkswagen, red inside and out where it sat in the snow, Mary and Dick Parker still strapped inside. _Killed on impact._ Clint has to believe him – whatever _he_ is, sitting on Clint’s sofa and saying his name is _Bucky_ – because he knows it’s true. Clint knows what those sorts of accidents can do all too well. Just like he knows that this isn’t the end of their conversation. “Who else, Bucky?”

Bucky swivels his head _No_ , but doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t lean in – even though a large, desperate part of him still wants to scoot closer to Bucky, to brush back the hair that’s fallen into his pretty eyes – but Clint straightens up and turns to face him. Clint’s knees are drawn in, arms wrapped around them for warmth as much as comfort. He wants answers, doesn’t he? “Who else did you _bring home_ , Bucky?”

“Nobody.”

“Who was it, Bucky?” It’s the truth – “ _I could never lie to you.”_ – but not all of it. There has to have been someone. Someone Clint lost; someone that should have come back. Someone else whose memories are tucked up into Clint’s past. “My… my mom and dad?”

“No. I wasn’t… I wasn’t strong enough back then, Clint.” Bucky lifts his hand, and – for a moment – Clint thinks the other man is going to reach out to him. Instead, he does what Clint’s own fingers itch to do, tucking his loose hair back behind his ear. “We were so little back then, remember? We blinked the lights. We laughed. You were happy.”

“I want you to be happy, Clint.” Bucky speaks softly, voice heavy with nostalgia, shrug almost shy. “That’s… that’s all I ever wanted, back when you waved at me through the glass.”

Clint can only nod, struck dumb for a moment as the last few tiny things slot into place, all lining up neatly. All except for that one. “You said you couldn’t lie to me, Bucky.”

“I… I really can’t, not if you ask.”

It’s an odd twist of phrase – for a normal person, which Bucky sure as hell isn’t – and Clint knows it’s purposeful. “How many times _haven’t_ you brought someone home?”

“Only once.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know… but I couldn’t bring her back, not after what she did.” Bucky cuts his eyes down, hiding behind his hair, again. He reaches for his neck, tugging at the chain looped there. Bucky lifts the ring up out of his collar, fiddling the gold band in his fingers. The warmth leaches out of his voice, leaving his words harsh, sharp-edged and frigid as he continues. “She lied and she hurt you. She left _on purpose_ , and she made you cry.She didn’t _deserve_ to come home!”

Bobbi. Clint can still remember her ring – _that ring_ – back in its box on the nightstand. The messages left unanswered. The letters returned unopened. Clint always thought she didn’t want to be found, but _this?_ Aspen was so cold that winter; the season lasting so late that year. “Why? Bucky why would you-?”

“I thought it was what you wanted? Wasn’t it?”

Clint isn’t sure; he never wanted to even think about her back then, but he tries now. He remembers the heavy snows after she left; stomping out into the fresh powder, snatching up the ring – _Good riddance!_ – and tossing it down the slope. He recalls keeping the box as a reminder to never do anything so stupid again.Clint remembers the gold band with a tiny arrow-pierced heart inside, flanked by a _C_ and a _B._ He remembers falling onto his knees in the snow, wishing that somebody would stay – that someone would _come back_ – even just once. _Just once._

By his words, Bucky remembers as well. “She told you she was never coming back! You were gonna have a family and be happy again, but-!”

“You didn’t have to _kill_ her!”

“It was _wrong!”_ Bucky’s still yelling; righteously angry as he pushes up off the couch and steps closer, leaning over Clint. “Family doesn’t hurt you and leave you alone. Family loves you!”

They stay like that for a long moment – Bucky staring down at him, chest heaving, icy-blue eyes-wide; Clint gawking upwards, white-knuckled grip tight on the back of the couch – before all of the fight seems to drain out of the shorter man. Bucky steps closer, until he’s a hair’s breadth away, shins nearly touching the edge of the sofa. He lifts his hand, brushing cool fingers across a freckled cheek. “I... I love you, Clint.”

Clint’s motionless – frozen – as much as from the frigid caresses down his cheek and neck as the constriction in his chest. Bucky’s said it before, and so has he. Clint has _felt_ it before. He still does.

“I know.” If Bucky knows something, it doesn’t seem to be what Clint’s thinking; he looks miserable. “You were happy, all those places without me. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it, Clint? Somewhere I can’t?”

“Will that make you go away?”

“You chose me, Clint. Why would I ever leave?” Bucky’s bending down, hand still cupped against his cheek as he leans in close. The tears on Bucky’s own cheeks aren’t _icy_ , they _are_ ice; tiny crystals that slip down from pale blue eyes to trace lines along the carved alabaster edge of his jaw. “Do you _want_ me to?”

Clint can feel the answer just behind his lips. It’s stupid – reckless – but it’s the same response he would have given back before the spring. It’s _wrong;_ Bucky sets him on edge in the best way, but the man gazing back at him _is_ a murderer. He’s insane. Or maybe that’s just Clint being crazy, himself. Both options are equally viable, but neither of them is changing his answer. “No.”

“No?”

Clint lays his own warm hand over the chilly one on his face, gently shaking his head. Bucky’s lips are cool and a bit chapped against his own, the kiss only a brief press to underscore his reply. “No, Bucky; I don’t want you to go.”

He may not want Bucky to leave – not now; not ever again – but Clint knows he can’t stay. Bucky loves him. Completely. _Dangerously._

Clint presses in for another kiss, standing and lifting Bucky up with him. He’s reticent to pull away, but he has to. It’s getting late; he’ll need to leave soon. They both will. Clint tugs his coat back on, zipping the parka out of habit. He slips his quiver over his shoulder, bow hooked to the outside. He bends down to scoop Alpine up from the floor, cradling her in his right arm; the left he offers to Bucky, twining their fingers together and tugging him towards the door. “Let’s go, Bucky.”

“But-” Other than brushing his thumb across the back of Clint’s hand, Bucky doesn’t move. “But Carson’s is your home.”

“It’s where my family stays.” The one that Clint built around himself. The one he wants to keep safe, no matter how much that hurts. Clint squeezes Bucky’s fingers, drawing him closer, until he can press a kiss to the end of his nose. “This is home now.”

Bucky’s eyes brighten and – for the first time since they’ve known each other – Clint feels warm beside him. He’s warmer than he should be beneath his parka, fingers burning where they thread through Bucky’s own. “I can go home with you, right? You and me and Alpine? _Our_ family?”

“You’d be happy with that?” There’s disbelief in those words, so much that Clint nearly misses the tiny sliver of hope. “You’d stay with me?”

“Always.” They step out into the swirling snow, Clint holding Bucky’s hand as they walk away from his trailer. He pauses to take a last glance back at his old home; at the target and the fading purple door. At the place he’s supposed to be going, the one he should have gone to already. At the dark-haired head peeking from that other camper, turning to look at them both.

Clint turns around and walks. He’s going to come back – he’s already made that promise – but Clint can’t return if he never leaves. He looks to his left, smiling down at the man beside him. “Ready?”

“Just one thing first.” They’re alongside his truck when Bucky lets Clint go, reaching forward to take the cat from his arms, setting her down on the powder at their feet. He walks Clint back, until he’s perched on the tailgate of the truck. Bucky presses close against him, face tipping up to brush a feather-light kiss across his mouth. Clint reaches for him, happily holding Bucky in his arms again.

He isn’t sure how he ever imagined Bucky as anything but a fire – blindingly bright – scorching him down to the marrow. Bucky’s lips play against his, fingers threading through the short-buzzed hair at the back of Clint’s head, sending fissures of heat down his spine. His blood is singing in his ears; loud and high and desperate, heart throbbing so heavily that he doesn’t even notice as it begins to slow. He tugs the shorter man closer, until he’s sitting in Clint’s lap, an inferno swathed in the briefest icy chill. Bucky’s arms – soft and warm; stone solid and freezing – slip around his waist, embracing him, holding too tightly for Clint to escape. Though, why would he want to? This is magical. Clint could stay here forever, letting the other man consume him, living and dying with every press of teeth and tongue.

_Living…_

… _and dying._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

“Hawkeye? Clint?!” The wind screams past Kate’s ears – loud and shrill and biting – and she ducks her head, arm up in front of her face. She heard shouting and saw Clint run out of his trailer, purple coat unzipped and eyes wild. Kate saw him pause and turn back to stare at her, then take off at a sprint across the parking lot. They’re supposed to be drinking to celebrate the passing of the torch, damnit! Why on earth is her mentor dashing out into the snow, and why the hell can’t she keep up?!

 _There!_ He’s just ahead of her, perched on the tailgate of his truck, parka in his arms like a fucking idiot. Clint doesn’t speak, doesn’t seem to care that she’s glaring as she runs up to him. “You’re late, dumbass. Come on.”

Clint’s still not answering her.

“Hawkeye?” Kate reaches for him, hand on his bare arm only long enough to feel the searing cold and skin like stone. She snatches it away, fighting a shriek, and leans in closer.

Clint sits there unmoving; mouth slack, eyes closed, blond lashes dusted in tiny crystals of ice.

“Clint?” She stumbles backwards, landing on her ass, pavement leaving her hands bloodied as Kate scrambles to get back up. She’s looking at Hawkeye, but having trouble seeing, tears and snow stinging her eyes. This can’t be happening! Clint was right there. Kate was right behind him and-! She blinks – vision finally focusing – her own blue eyes meeting crystalline grey, and Kate hears a vitreous cracking as the corners of those familiar eyes crinkle in a smile.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Kate only realizes she’s screaming when Peter and Wanda reach her. They’re kneeling beside her, dragging her up off the ground, though Kate can’t remember falling a second time. Can’t remember anything except frozen lashes and eyes like frosted steel.

Peter’s got an arm around her waist, and Wanda is hovering at her other side. They’re walking her back toward the trailers, but it’s hard to keep track of anything but Peter’s voice, squeaky with worry. “Oh, crap; Kate, you’re bleeding.”

Yes; yes she is, but Clint! Clint’s- “Where’s Clint?!” She stumbles as she turns – legs stiff with cold, toes numb – and falls into Wanda’s arms as the taller woman props her up. “Where is he?”

“Probably sleeping.” Wanda looks down at her, then follows Kate’s gaze backwards to the truck parked a few feet away. Its bed is empty, and there’s nothing on the tailgate but a single arrow and a thin layer of snow. Wanda turns Kate gently, nudging her to start walking back toward their trailer. “It’s almost two in the morning, Katherine; what are you doing out here?”

“I… I thought…” Kate Bishop isn’t sure what she thought. What she’s thinking now, though? It’s crazy; impossible. It has to be because Kate remembers waiting up for Clint. She remembers having a shot with Wanda, then watching her roommate tuck into bed. Kate remembers running out into the snow at just a little past one in the morning, but it’s after two by the time Peter and Wanda can coax her into her shared trailer. They force her to sit, to let Wanda patch her up while Peter makes coffee and Lucky sits on her feet, whining softly. They try to push her into bed, but Kate refuses until they let her check.

Hawkeye’s trailer is locked down, and all his lights are off. Kate raises her hand to knock on her mentor’s purple door, but Peter grabs her wrist, head shaking. Clint sleeps with his good ear on the pillow. He won’t hear it, anyway, and he’s got to be exhausted after tonight’s show. He probably just fell into bed after he and Natasha locked up like always. Peter has a spare key to Clint’s camper; they can go in to check on him at a decent hour.

Kate wants to push it further, but Peter’s probably right. Clint’s not crazy, and he definitely wouldn’t just run off without telling any of them. He always says they’re like family, after all; Clint wouldn’t do that. He just _wouldn’t._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**


	3. Epilogue

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Kate Bishop eyes her battered camper with a smile. It’s worn but familiar, reminding her of someone she only sometimes wants to forget. She’s waiting for the rest of the troupe to trickle out, hurrying along the stragglers. She’s in no rush; her act closes out the show, so she can afford to wait.

Kate doesn’t want to, though, because her current company is absolute garbage. Matt Murdock might be partnered with the nicest idiot Kate’s ever met, but that doesn’t make him any less of a jackass.

He asks her why she sticks with such an eye-bleeding colour scheme for her costume.

Kate says he’s colourblind, anyway.

He asks her what the deal is with Carson’s never doing a show in Iowa.

Kate tells him to fuck off and go do his prep.

Murdock asks her when she’ll finally paint over the second arrow; there’s only one _Hawkeye_ since the other one ran off way back when. He asks Kate why the hell she uses that same purple bullseye on her trailer for target practice all winter, especially when she’s the one who’ll have to patch the holes. Matt insinuates that maybe she’s crazy, just like the other guy.

Kate offers him an answer that doesn’t require using too many of her words.

Danny manages to get himself between them before Kate can test whether their newest contortionist really _can_ fit his head up his own ass, but it’s a near thing. Today just isn’t the day for any of Matt Murdock’s bullshit.

It’s their last performance in Clifton before they head south and out of the snow belt for a month. The sky is blue, the forecast is clear, and Kate can’t help being disappointed. Lucky’s been favouring his one leg all morning; she expected at least a few flakes by now.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

The weather turns during the show, the sun dropping at dusk and pulling a frigid wind behind it. Every inch of the parking lot is sugar-dusted by the time their equipment is packed away for the night; everything is stowed for tomorrow’s trip, leaving the troupe to scurry inside.

Hawkeye doesn’t mind a little snow – growing up in New York City means getting used to it – but nights like this tend to bring things back, the sorts of things she’d rather leave on the miles of road behind her.

Nightmares. Memories. Unannounced guests.

Kate has a feeling it’s going to be that kind of night.

She hastily scurries back to her old target-marked trailer after the show, pulling on the warmest clothes she can find once she’s clean – flannel pyjamas and socks, slippers and bathrobe and house coat – everything except her heavy puffy parka. That would be too much; they always talk inside, anyway.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

There’s a piercing thunk against the side of her trailer, followed by a knock, just after twelve-thirty; the echo of knuckles rapping on the purple metal of her door. Kate unlocks it, smiling warily at the two figures standing outside in the gentle fall of snow.

Clint Barton steps up into her trailer; Bucky and the cat follow, the shorter man closing the door behind him. Bucky sits on her sofa, but Clint trails Kate to her rickety dinette table, set with a chilled bottle, three frosty shots already poured. Clint lifts his glass in a half salute, sipping the barest amount.

Kate knocks hers back in one go. She nearly chokes on the burn, but it warms her, just a bit. She considers pouring another – or maybe drinking Bucky’s – as Clint speaks.

“How’s the family, Katie-Kate?”

“G-good.” It’s the bone-numbing cold from the weather that just blew its way inside when her door was open that makes her jaw clench up. It must be that – Kate thinks – that, and being so damn tired from tonight’s performance. There’s no other cause for her stuttering. It’s not because she’s scared; she has no reason to be, right? It’s just Clint dropping by her trailer after the show, same as always.

 _Exactly the same_ , looking just like he had when she found him that night, hair mussed and grey eyes smiling. Far less dead than she recalls, though his skin is wan and has the barest sheen, smooth and hard like a bar of fresh soap.

Of course, maybe she never saw him at all, just like Wanda and Peter said. It was late – early, really – and deep into that true dark that only comes well after midnight. She was exhausted, and a little tipsy. Then, as now, it was snowing; not drifting in pleasant, friendly flakes, but in a whipping bluster that cut through to the bone and froze tiny crystals in her loose hair.

Clint shifts across from her, leaning back against his seat, arms crossed lazily behind his head as he smiles.

Kate wants to draw her feet up off the floor and curl into her layers. There’s a little bit of a draft from the door. It’s chilling her toes, but her guests don’t seem to mind. Kate shakes her head, adjusting her headband, pushing her dark hair back out of her face.

She might not like it, but she can’t exactly lock them out. Clint’s key doesn’t work anymore – Kate asked Mr. Coulson to change the locks on her trailer after Clint’s first _visit home_ – but she can’t bring herself to leave him out in the weather, even though she knows full well that the cold doesn’t bother him. Even though it’s been – what? – Nine years? Ten? Twelve? It was well before Pete started sharing the wire with Miles – before Reed retired and Matt and Danny took his place – back when Wade still hadn’t learned how to get himself out of the tank uninjured. It’s long enough ago that those old enough to remember are outnumbered by the new; so long that Kate sometimes wonders if it really wasn’t all in her head. Clint’s been gone since before she found her first silver hair among the black. Since well before Lucky went full grey in the muzzle.

Kate shakes her head as her dog trips out of her bed, hobbling to greet their guests as best he can at his age. Lucky wouldn’t look to hallucinations for pets, so Kate feels justified in their veracity, and in asking, though she knows what the answer will be. “Why do you come back?”

“You’re family, Katie-Kate. All of you. I need to know you’re okay. It’s important. You’re… _special.”_ It’s a very Clint answer.

A very _Hawkeye_ answer because Kate can admit that – in his position – she’d feel the same way. _Still._ “Then why do you leave?”

“Can’t very well stay, can I?” Clint smirks, chuckling, face scrunching until his eyes almost disappear behind white blond-lashes.

Looking at him, Kate thinks they’re what makes the biggest difference; the only change she can really be sure of, even at a distance. Clint’s eyes have always been grey, but they were softer before. Now, they’re like a patch of side-walk ice in the sunlight – glinting and dangerous – just waiting for that moment when somebody falls.

Clint finally gets a damper on his humour, sobering to ask, “And you’re good? You and…?”

“America; and, yeah, we are.” She doesn’t question how Clint knows what happens when he isn’t here, just like she doesn’t bring up the snow, the cat, or the thing sitting on her couch that she’s only ever known as Bucky. There are some answers that Kate never needs to know, no matter how much she might _want_ to.

“Good. You need someone you can count on.” Clint nods, looking so much like the mentor that she remembers that Kate _hurts_.

She wants him to stay; to talk to Peter and the twins, and to meet Miles, and America, too. Kate wants him to stop in to have lunch with Phil and Natasha, or to join her for practice, even just one more time. But she’s not going to get what she wants, leaving her to tip her head at Bucky, and really wishing he wasn’t petting her dog. “Like him?”

“Maybe not quite…” Clint’s laughter is low and warm as ever; the only thing about him that still is. He nods toward one of her posters, pinned to the ceiling of the trailer like so many hundreds before it. “Working on anything new?”

It’s a familiar question from an old friend, and Kate can’t help answering. She just _can’t._ “So it starts with the firework arrow…”

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Her clock is blinking one-forty-two by the time Kate pushes up from the table, stiff with cold, muscles aching. She needs to snatch at least a few hours of sleep; they’re leaving tomorrow morning. Well, later today. “I hate to kick you out.” It’s true, and it isn’t, more for one than the other, but it doesn’t really matter, now, does it?

“Take care, Hawkeye.” Clint stands beside her. He steps in close, gently enfolding her in his arms, still having to bend down all these years later, holding her in the briefest of hugs.

Kate fights not to shake, nor to shove him away and reach for the old afghan tossed across her bed. He’s her guest – her _friend_ – and it would seem rude.

“It’s alright. Can’t help that sometimes.” Bucky nods, picking up their cat.

Clint, meanwhile, seems to have followed Kate’s line of thinking. He grabs up the blanket and drapes it around her shoulders, careful not to touch her again. “See you for your birthday?”

They’ll be in Buffalo, so Kate can nod _Yes_. They’re just coming up on the end of March, though, and her birthday isn’t until November. Carson’s is heading southward after this, then almost due east – through Richmond and Beckley and Staunton – before hooking northward once more; maybe far enough for one last visit. “Will I see you in Pittsburgh?”

“Maybe?” Clint shrugs, smiling softly as he and Bucky head out, leaving Kate standing in the doorway of her trailer. Hawkeye watches them go, but even she loses sight of them before they hit the roadway, the snow leaching away the colour of their coats last – purple and navy fading to lavender and icy-blue – until they’ve vanished in the drifting white.

Lucky noses against the back of her leg, and Kate reaches down to pet him. It’s late and cold, and they really ought to be getting to sleep. Still, she can stay a moment longer. Kate always sleeps well on nights like this, when the snow blows heavily and the drifts get deep. It’s unexpected – finding such peace in the same weather that brings phantoms to her door – but Kate isn’t above admitting she’s comforted to think that Clint might be out there, even if she can’t see him.

Kate snorts, laughing at herself, then turns to glance at the target painted on the side of her home on wheels. There’s an arrow dead-centre in the purple bullseye, crystalline and sparkling in the sodium lights of the parking lot. It will be gone by morning, nothing but another hole to patch and a little puddle, maybe an icicle drip over the wheel well, but that’s alright; there’ll be another one. There always is.

_Always._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

**Author's Note:**

> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**
> 
> **WinterHawk Bingo:** Childhood Friends, I3 (Chapter 1)
> 
>  **WinterHawk Bingo:** Alone, I4 (Chapter 2)
> 
> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ☆ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**


End file.
